The Gaffer’s rollup loped, dipping down the main lot,
pinprick of fire loitering, hot
on the high heels of Lily LaMotte,
her mein deceiving the tourist tours,
stargazing through the Californian haze,
he watched her splicing celluloid all her days
ringed knuckle lighting proffered fag,
embroidered sleeve obscuring poisoned fig,
zipper’s teeth close up the body bag.
In her exhausted heart she saw the story,
though Moby Dick a dead John Dory,
the tailored arm was warmly predatory
and when the Gaffer tracked her to a bar
to both, her open, darkened eyes read ‘star’
his knife against her throat just how things are.
.
Ruth Hobson
.