MurderVerse

Empty parking lot 10.00 pm

Waiting for the last store to close.

Waiting,

waiting and writing,

poems, verses

about this Life and accomplishments,

his MurderVerses.

The things he's done, as in, "You want me to do that thing, boss?"

Things he's seen like

Lucky dead in his own house

and his wife screaming upstairs.

That whole incident with Lucky bothered him.

No reason for it.

He wrote to rid himself of guilt.

He was going to hell;

there was no forgiveness in the MurderVerse.

None.

His first MurderVerses consumed an entire legal pad

and four hours on a Sunday afternoon.

He missed the Saints-Jets game but he felt better

getting it off his chest.

Sharing his work is out of the question

but he would love a second opinion.

Too bad, no poet-client privilege.

The yellow legal pad hit the flames after he read through it twice.

***

Store lights go out, finally.

A nervous-looking man with a cash bag emerges.

It's over in a second,

assault and robbery,

he takes the money,

and speeds away two thousand richer.

***

His ex-wife meets him at the place.

A grand for child support,

a little something for her.

They part ways without conversation.

Back in his room, a fresh legal pad awaits him,

waits for words and verses, for stories only he can tell.

Paper is strong, paper can take it.

Johnny watches the sunrise from his window,

puts pen to paper and gives a title to his crazy life;

The Rites of a Gangster Poet.

No, no wait,

The Gangster Poet, question mark.

Hold up, how about just Gangster Poet?

His mind forms a question followed by an earthquake thought.

A movie deal

Yeah, Gangster Poet up in lights.

That's it, that's the ticket.

Gangster Poet,

In theaters everywhere.