His face, her face, we know them
from a thousand scenes.
Framed through a split-windowed
windshield, the ring light picks out
his two-day stubble,
and the cosmetic beads of sweat
gleaming on his cheeks and brow.
Her glycerin tears and dark lipstick
so artfully applied by the studio makeup artist.
Tendrils of Lucky Strike or Camel smoke
curl out from their anxious mouths.
Seen through the back window,
the footage filmed by the second unit
of empty Mojave roads, Manhattan neon,
or suburban Burbank plays on
a rear projection screen
We hear his voice but his lips don’t move,
so we know it’s his feverish thoughts
bouncing wall to wall inside his skull
as he replays the double cross
that he should have seen,
the trap, the trap, the trap.
Maybe I could recreate this scene,
this trope of the silver screen on Zoom.
Carefully arrange a key light on my face.
Skip shaving for three days.
Dab some glycerin on my upper lip.
Light up a Lucky or Camel.
Mount a vintage steering wheel to my desk.
Find some stock footage from the desert:
a sun-bleached cracked two-lane road
lined with Joshua trees and creosote bushes.
Abandoned shacks and motor courts.
Play it on a virtual rear window behind me
while I tell my stories over sirens,
gun shots, screeching tires,
trombones and moaning violins.
Make my voice the voice of dread.
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