Dead Loving Office

A mail carrier,
a postie,
a letter carrier

Walked into a bar.

Smittie wiped his rag slowly down the bar,
one eye on the newcomer,
the other in the mirror, debating how he’d parted his hair that morning.
(It had been a tortuous argument, between him and himself,
the comb dancing from left side to middle, then combing straight back –
in the end, it was all cowlicks and dumbbell curls again)

“What’re you gents – gent – person(s) of interest, having today?”

“I could do with a nice egg cream, bar person, bar tender, say yes,
that I could and would. Two bits extra for a story, and a side of ham,
if you’re offering.”

Smitty wasn’t giving offerings.

Smitty wasn’t at all.
Nothing given, etc etc.

What he did have was a shotgun, and an almost steady hand.
He leveled those two barrels straight at the heart of the matter.

“Boom,” he whispered, one eye in the mirror,
the other on his heart.
“Boom. I’ll see you in the back rooms.”


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