You'd be so Nice to Come Home To

The detective flings a few bucks

at a cabbie, and heads for The Gut

Bucket. The joint's closed, but the jazz

singer had swiped him a key. He shuffles

 

past the upturned chairs, and as he nears

the house piano with its chipped corners

and coffee stained top, he sees it as an old

man with soft eyes and stories to spill,

 

a man he could share a pint with.

He creaks up the staircase

to the jazz singer's pad, and thinks

about her waiting in bed. He'll snuggle

 

up and press his breath against the back

of her neck, his nose tickled by her black

curls. Later, the piano player will drip

out tunes for the mugs who wander in

 

for a sip in the late afternoon, and music

will rise through the floorboards like steam

off pavement after a summer rain. Shamus

and songbird will tumble out of their sheets,

 

stumble down the steps, and over steak

and onions, he'll watch her sweat sex

and sorrow into a microphone. He twists

the doorknob after reaching the top stair,

 

and she's on the other side of the door 

wearing a satin negligee. The left strap

hangs off her shoulder. Mascara streaks

down her cheek. She's bound to a chair

 

with rope, and a lamp cord's wrapped

around her feet. A man built like a Cadillac

looms over her. He has rusty bolts

for teeth and bullet holes for eyes.

 

The man raises a Colt .45 to her damp

temple. She tries to scream, a gag

keeps her mum. He clicks back

the hammer with a greasy thumb.