Latex,
the private dick opined, but whether
he’d
noticed wall paint or the lissome pants
which
clung to her like wall paint, I don’t know.
When
he said Dames, I guess he didn’t mean
a
thespianette once sanctioned with a gong;
but,
really, only every second line
he
uttered, like a water-damaged page,
registered.
He was grousing about hollow
points.
Perhaps Quintilian had reentered
his
recollection. Sometimes from a dark
outcrop
of fiction odd things clamber up,
with
strappy shoes, peroxide hair, and net
shielding
the violet eyes. Probably not
Quintilian,
though. Psyche with a quirk,
trysting
the night away, seems far more likely.
He
offered rye. Who now drinks rye? The flask
restored
him for an exit, nothing more,
and
soon the transom, last light left, went black.
No comments:
Post a Comment