SECRETS BLACK AS MIDNIGHT
I’m the guy in the corner, my features shrouded under the cover of a hat brim, nursing a gin and tonic on the coldest night of the year. Came in the side door, no cover, no minimum. Seems I owe the doorman a favor, or he owes me one. We’ve both forgotten what for. Do I carry secrets in my overcoat? Yes, secrets black as midnight, and dark as those 5-mile-deep trenches on the bottom of the ocean. Getting a gin buzz and listening to the 3-piece combo do an extended cover of Compared to What is a good way to kill part of an evening. The other part? Rendezvousing with a lady for a meeting of the minds. Most likely a no conversation type of conversation, in a setting where such things aren’t so unusual. A few more songs played. Silverware clinking on wine glasses rings out. The musicians take a break. She saunters up to my table, wearing dark sunglasses and a Burberry black trench coat. She clicks a long fingernail on the table’s shiny wood surface, as she slides into the chair like a bird of prey. Her dark hair contains a few wisps of gray, and her upturned lips are just this side of cruel. She lowers her nighttime shades, momentarily peers over the top, then pushes them back up the bridge of her nose. Dark mascara artfully smudged around her cat-like eyes, and a sharp breath exhales from her mouth. A waiter appears from out of nowhere. She points at his eyes, and taps on my glass. He nods and walks away. I pull my hat brim lower. No doubt she puts a spell on other guys within seconds. Maybe I used to be that guy. Maybe I’m still that guy when situations line up. Could be I’ve learned a few things as I’ve lived my version of this thing called life. She investigates the contents of her leather Prada purse, reaches in, pulls out an overstuffed envelope. Slides it across the table to me. I thumbed through the bills. Never get tired of seeing Benny Franklin’s face, with his retro-cool glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. I slide the envelope, minus a Franklin, into my suit jacket pocket. Her drink arrives. We lean over and pretend to whisper into each other’s ears. The band returns to the stage. Within minutes, she saunters out the backdoor, into the wind. After giving my pal, the doorman, his biggest tip of the night, I slip on my cloak of invisibility and make my exit into the red brick alleyway.
I’m putting together an eBook of my Internet Poems, Prose Poems, and Noir Prose Poems, among others types of poems. More info as this project progresses.
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