He was perspiring like the greasy spoon’s <br />plate glass windows on a subzero afternoon, <br />the drizzle of convection a reaction to the heat within; <br />the heat was on. <br /> <br />The confectioner’s sugar, dusting the day-old donuts <br />on the diner’s formica counter, reminded him of colder climates, <br />powdery snow on the curvaceous mountains back East. <br /> <br />The splattered globs of Heine’s ketchup <br />oozing on a platter of oily french fries, <br />made him think not of snowmen and sleighs, <br />but of things less benign, <br />like the messy corpse lying prostrate <br />on the carpet back home. <br /> <br />Home. The idea seemed quaint, <br />nostalgic, even. Just as his home had seemed a prison, <br />now a prison would be his home, <br />once the coppers caught the scent. <br />Just like the contents of the cheap ashtray <br />brimming with the detritus <br />of countless men before him, <br />strapped for cash, desparate, starved for love, <br />his future was gray and crumbled. <br /> <br />In the mammoth oval mirror behind the counter, <br />he thought he saw a sudden movement: <br />a little boy, about 5 or 6, <br />seemed to stare back at him <br />from some far away place and time. <br />He imagined he heard the phantom say: <br />Why did you do this to me?<br /><br />Sonny Rainshine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/film-noir-ii/
