The young guy turns
towards Bill
in the single bed;
his blue eyes
are as innocent
as cheese.

I thought you
were a gonna
back at that bar,
the young guy says.

Bill sighs, moves up
in the bed, getting
the young guy
into focus.

But you took them out
before I could blink,
the young guy adds.

One has to weigh out
the ends and means,
Bill says.

But you're an old guy,
I thought that was it.

Bill reaches
for a cigarette
from the bedside table
and opens it
and takes out one
and offers,
but the young guy
shakes his head,
so Bill lights up
and puffs away.  

You **** good.

The youth blushes,
looks at Bill,
then away
at the room.

Small, Spartan,
few bits of furniture,
few belongings.

You live here?

Now and then.

Where'd you live mostly?

Out of a suitcase.

The young guy
stares at Bill.

What was your job?

Government business.

C.I.A or FBI?

Can't say
or if I did
I’d have to **** you.

The young guy
begins to smile,
but Bill doesn't,
the youngster
stops smiling.

Something like that,
though?

Something like that.

The  youth
nods his head.

Did you meet
any one famous?

Bill exhales
and stares at the kid.  

I knew the Kennedys,
met Saddam and Gaddafi
and other creeps like that.

The youth opens
his eyes wide.

Really knew them?

Bill nods, looks away.

I knew them;
now they're all dead.

Who killed JFK?

Bill smiles;
can't tell you,
but you'll
find out one day.

Did you?

Bill shook his head;
no I was just
a young novice then;
I met Jack K
in a passage way
in the Big House,
back in 1962;
he tapped my shoulder,
had a nice smile,
liked the dames.

The kid looks
at Bill deeply.

Were you sad
when JFK died?  

I don't get sad
about things,
I survive
and move on;
now no more questions,
get me a coffee
and then
we can get back
to bed work again.

The young guy
nods his head,
gets up and goes
to the small kitchen
and makes two coffees;
on a wall,
pinned by a single pin
is a picture
of a blonde girl
and underneath
is scrawled in red ink:
innocent or guilty:
what do you think?