A line in code,
Bogart, feeling the burnt calamity
Heat of cities and
Hearts pretty with new orders.
Flinching dramatically yet faintly,
She chortled and crossed.
He barely escaped a double, a body.
All the ladies pretty with trouble.
Yet Who’s the true Scheherazade?
Telling, bruised cheeks and frozen eyes.
You pull down a frown waltz the promenade,
Long, blonde obelisks hiding Rosicrucian spies.
Pinching and squeezing, the blues of your eyes,
Insuring exits and doors, writing on parchment
Film from a milk glass,
Checking your pockets for cents.
Emptied at once and in the morass
Future opportunities. Past prominent.
Throwing queens and kings in with the cards,
Escalating the fight that night he sang,
He heard the door slam, hard.
The story left for another in chains
The first rights of refusal
And Persia called him Methuselah.