Feeling the duanting cry - aloof.
Like a violin with its haunting strings.
I was in a coma-like state of sleep.
The knock at the door.

The dead swan on the butcher's block.
The brilliant faces and signed will.
Borrowed cigarette in the back seat of
the black Mercedes-Benz with Bette Davis.

I stunned in my black suit and silk tie.
I noticed her blank stare from behind
those huge sunglasses. I sighed deeply -
high tailing my heels out the door.

The dead swan on the butcher's block.
I lingered in dismay (I felt paralyzed),
stroked by the rapture of the male swan.
I prayed. Bette Davis is dead.