A Poem



Route 66 Sunday Morning 106 Degrees

The Ford door flies open propelled

massive greasy head of hair falls out

head smashed tight onto the gravel

door swings back hits head hard

settles against ear squeal ringing

aching jaw just cracked with fist

of crazed shirtless tattooed driver

raw anger alive in clenched form

shot with unnerving force

blackout…

brown greasy bag hits pavement

shatters – a muffled smash

hands yank at jeans

in pockets like a hundred wired snakes

few crumpled bills, not ten dollars

snatched as desert water, gone, gone

boot push on crotch as shoulders fall from ford

next rump then legs and a final

kick from a scuffed heel

dust tires screeching silence

hot desert all around waiting

for the buzzard dance

boots akimbo

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2 Responses to “A Poem”

  1. Darling Roy, you missed a whole other calling as a writer for gangster movies but then wait when we say something and wish it, hop up and down and backwards and forwards, doesn't that make it come true and happen?Of course it does. I am your dedicated admirer and friend, lovely work as always!Angie

  2. Thanks Angie for the kind words. I shouldda been around way back when, say in 20's in Paris, 30's Berlin (EARLY 30's!) 40's in NOIR YORK…and fifties in Palm Beach.

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