I, Sheherezade, I

“Function, sweetheart.”
A line in code,
Bogart, feeling the burnt calamity,
The sweat of cities,
And the hearts all pretty.

Served with new orders, realizing
She flinched dramatically yet faintly,
Rudely chortled, then crossed her “i”s.
He barely escaped a double, a body,
The usual. She’s pretty, toiling for trouble.
Yet Who’s the true Scheherazade?
Telling, her bruised cheeks and frozen eyes.
You down a frown waltz the promenade,
Long, dark obelisks hiding Rosicrucian spies.
Pinching and squeezing, the blues of your eyes,
Cover the exit doors, clues etched
Deep into jaundiced old parchment.

Film from a milk glass half full of greed,
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.

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