recipe

neon bar signs,

shadows of louvered blinds

slash the hotel wall

sad trombones,

off camera gun shots

ugly trumpet chords

a dame in a clinging night gown

falling off her shoulder

glamor lighting

on white shoulders

and pale bosoms

luscious lips pouting

and blowing smoke

lot of cigarettes

and half empty

whiskey bottles

on cheap dressers

wet brick alleys

lit by headlights

half a conversation

on a telephone:

yeah, yeah,

smith is dead.

pearl strands

and two-hour

sculpted tresses.

fedoras, trenchcoats

and snub-nosed 38s.

bloodless, instant,

gunshot deaths.

canned tire squeals

roaring engines

tense faces seen

through a windshield

streaked with rain

close up:

a wooden match flares

with a sizzle.