DEAD IS DEAD 1999A Poem by Terry Collett AN AGENT AND A PUNK IN 1999  Bill lit up a cigarette, began to dress. The young punk on the bed yakked about left wing crap. Bill turned off his hearing, the sex had been good, the talk not. He buttoned up his collar, tied his tie. Exhaled the smoke, put on his shoes. Walked to the small kitchen, flipped on the radio, put on the kettle. The young punk got off the bed, dressed, gazed at the older man in the kitchen, classic s**t from the radio. Bill offered coffee and toast. The young punk said: ok, sat in a chair, pushed fingers through black hair, shoulder length. Bill took in the Debussy, turned on the toaster, made coffee. The kid was talking away, lit up, watched Bill's back, the shooter in an holster over the shoulder. Bill laid down the coffee and toast, sat opposite the punk, gentle spoke. The punk had liked the sex, ate the toast, sipped the coffee, feared the shooter. The Debussy ended, Bach organ music, punk yawned. Are you a cop? the punk asked. No, Bill said, in business. Business? the punk wondered what sort, exhaled smoke. Worldwide stuff, Bill said, musing on the arranged suicide s**t in Iraq, dead is dead. © 2017 Terry Collett |
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Terry CollettUnited KingdomAboutTerry Collett has been writing since 1971 and published on and off since 1972. He has written poems, plays, and short stories. He is married with eight children and eight grandchildren. on January 27t.. more..Writing
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