Unsolved Mysteries- Day 2

Her rouged lips smile gently,
rounding out a cigarette perfumed
by anticipation and moisture,
as she begs him for assistance. (Please!)

The door swings shut, clicking
and demonstrating Private!
I’m with a client, come back another
time, or out to lunch, or drunk. (Clink!)

He sits, sweaty greyed hat on a rack
in a dusty corner, smoke racing round
the room with a half-finished bottle
next to an unloaded pistol. (Bang!)

If there’s nowhere else to turn,
most likely you’ll end up without
answers, a pocketbook empty
and a run in your stocking. (Sigh.)

She faces, legs crossed and poised,
fake tears wetting a handkerchief
given to her by another man whom she
swindled with laughter and tales. (Coy.)

He knows all the ins and all the outs,
with experience growing silver lines
in his hair and creases on his skin.
Experience doesn’t outweigh intrigue. (Hmm.)

They both play boldly, laying traps
and smoothing out the attractions
predictable and not, that lay on top of
the wooden desk between their legs. (Gotcha!)

I suppose I could help, but it will
cost a pretty penny. The secretary’s out
to lunch so I’ll have to do all the paperwork
myself. You don’t… mind? (Ask?)

The tweed suit undulating around her
aching figure is too hot for the stuffy room
but the timing is too soon for such
obvious tricks- her blouse underneath steams. (Sweat.)

No, I suppose if you must, but I wish you’d just start.
She knows he knows, and he is aware of
that too. The room is screaming for air
and the smoke from their cigarettes thickens. (Gasp!)

He studies her, she looks away, taking a drink.
They both reel one another in, easily
forgetting the mystery at hand, tweed skirts and
old suits sopping up the chemistry. (Slow.)

Without warning, he jumps up from the desk
and rushes to open a window next to her.
Though startled, she remains motionless,
just waiting for the breeze to attack them both (Woosh!)

He’s closer to her now, and the cool breeze
mops up all their communal heat and rushes it
outside while they sit serenely blissful, both thankful
for his deliberate action after much hesitation. (Finally!)

I guess you have the details, thank you
for your time- she puts out her cigarette and
rearranges her skirt. I’ll be in touch- he opens the door,
watches her walk away, straightening his tie. (Slack.)

London Haiku- Day 1

Politics and Gray
gleam over the fair city.
Forty cups of tea.

April Fool

Old memories made of
carrot cake
stain freshly laid
plans bestowed upon
the young.

You fool!
Fretting and scribbling
schedules and resentments,
cake crumbs on a tiled floor,
chilled still.

Such old pain
tastes stale, nutmeg and
cinnamon unable to mask
sour stresses
unable to be resolved.

Bowling Haiku

Bears bowl while we stand.
Intergalactic setting.
Perfect idea.

We are Strangers

We are strangers.
Simply put, we are strange unto each other
now.
Tempers fret and salted wounds tear open.
Memory claws through scarred tissue,
though we scream, and numb, and ignore.

We are strangers.
We easily assume, and are equally betrayed
now.
Muscled, predicted rhythms carry old energy.
No matter how many erasers are rubbed, piled,
the potential of ached nostalgia proves indelible.

We are strangers.
Simply put, the see-saw we sit on mocks us
now.
Disappointment, honest rage, and withered hope
are not enough to mask the permanent familiarity
which haunts our strangeness, reminding silently.

Sunday Haiku

Sundays are best spent
with a lover, not homework.
Ennui without end.