He draws his hand upward
Closing the space between his hand and his mouth
Presses the cigarette to his lips
Billows of smoke swirling above his head
The sounds of footsteps wandering through the alley
He consults his intuition
Reaches inside his trench
Wraps his fingers around the pistol
Does he go
Head shaking
He disregards the thought
Clicking of heels nearby
He looks
Long legs
Red lips
Black dress
He whistles
She stops
She looks
He winks
She scoffs
Mutters under his breath
"Damn"
A dog barks
He walks to the car
Gets in
Key turns
Engine rumbles
Grabs wheel
Drives
Streets and sidewalks pass by
Makes it home
Reaches for the key
Unlocks the house and enters
Down the hallway
An unknown person
His eyes widen
He reaches for the pistol
Shots fired
Too late
Not his gun
On the floor
Red
Red, everywhere
YOU ARE READING
Noir
PoetryVenetian streaks, dark alleys, trench coats, smoking guns...you want that? Check out Noir, an anthology of poetry dedicated to ideas and time lost.
