|Jan/Feb 2007 Poetry Special Feature|
A Private Eye Looks For An Invisible Man
She walked into my office at 4 a.m.
and reported her husband, Mikkl, missing.
Have you talked to the police?
"They say he probably walked away."
Cops want to keep their desks clear.
If there isn't a homicide report
and a body with a bullet hole,
they don't care.
Trust me. Only cash or plastic
buys you interest in your problems.
She smiled, the tension dropping
like a bathrobe after three glasses of scotch.
When was the last time you saw Mikkl?
She crossed her legs and my heart
pounded, a basketball flung down a deep stairwell.
She leaned toward me,
her breasts beautiful twins.
Already I felt paternal toward those babies.
I imagined her juxtaposed
against a balding detective
in a family photo. She could have
a gambling problem. Or shingles.
I could see no impediment to marriage.
Anyway, all men who love beautiful women
know that feeling of vanishing sooner or later.
A year from now she'd be reporting
One Night Stand
Last night she clutched
a plastic champagne glass,
the eager moon juxtaposed
against the cross in the window.
The future was as promising
as her open bathrobe.
This morning I am no more
than a childish impediment,
the messy room the aftermath
of a sleepover party.
you have to work?" she asks.
"You must have somewhere
Can we spend the day together?
"Oh god," she moans. "Do you think
I'm a child, that I can spend
the day throwing peanuts
at the zoo's monkeys?
Get a grip. Last night
wasn't a reason to rush out
and buy an engagement ring."
Shall I call you? I ask.
"Hurry," she says. "I'm late for work."
Maybe I'll see you at the club?
"I was there on a guest pass," she says. "Maybe
I'll leave you everything
in my will? Okay?
If you just get dressed?
Please hurry," she pleads,
as if I were six years old
and unable to find