The book on the shelf is hollowed out to accommodate a pistol--
my pistol, eager to wrap this up, darling.
The hep cats, hep kittens, now know what a dead body smells like--
my husband, doused in gin and perfume.
Are all of you the same? Togged to the bricks, fancy matches,
chatting more than breathing? Are you a good salesman,
or a hangnail, a charmer with more wishes than tricks?
I would ask a woman, but a woman doesn't want me. She doesn't like
blood under her nails. She doesn't like dirt sucking up her heels.
So, I have to settle for you, my lipstick on your collar.
You call it "fire engine red." I call it "murder," and you laugh.
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