Goblet of wine, red, on the rim of the tub. Grime from the back of his neck staining the skin of water. The death itself – envisioning it like you’re there – drowsing in the steamy bathtub, his forehead waxy and soft. Witnessing the black coroner van, white lettering.
Yeasty refrigerator cartons full of homeless swell the avenues, damp eyes following you through slits. Faces clouding windows on the cross-town bus. Rain runneling iron-fronts in SoHo, cause you know it’s got to be a dark and stormy one…wind battering hotel awnings. Lids of garbage cans clanking alleys full of strays. Steam from subway grates roils from the Bowery to Harlem. …The night when his three-alarm emergency strobes out his heart, like Times Square neon short-circuiting, lethal and hot. The facts are a hell of a lot cleaner than the fantasy. Just the facts in obits, police reports: Alone. It’s the late 1990s by then, and you haven’t seen him, oh, since the late ‘80s. Though the way you wish it had happened: a gal with the same homicidal fantasy (no way else to say it) as you.Īnd who wouldn’t say he didn’t deserve it? You say he did, and you have your reasons.īut your hands are clean. Unless some married dame snuck from his apartment undetected. No one in attendance when it happened, far as you know. Uptown near Broadway, case you’re looking for fingerprints. “He was mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”
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