The detective’s
tired of unraveling
mysteries. He can quit the quick
talk—done with that femme fatal
flirty-bird routine. He’s had enough
slipped mickeys
to bring down Fatty
Arbuckle. He’s sick of toothpick
smiling stoolies jawing the bone
of blackmail, meat of murder.
He can do without
the no-tell motels
with no one to tell but the fug
and the neon outside making love
to the shadows pocketing his face.
And as for the
porkpie hat?
He’s alright; he can stay blowing
streetlamp jazz for the moths.
But what the gumshoe really wants
is to give the silver screen the slip,
look into a mirror and see more
than double indemnity. Why not tail
the blonde in the back row
back to her place?
He loves the way
she misses her mouth with her popcorn.
With no one yelling Cut, or Take two,
he could stake out her speakeasy heart,
shake it down
and flip the tables.
He and the girl could go into business,
their love, the hottest Nightclub in town.
It’ll be known as The Boogaloo.
