Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
TerryCollettPoems
Bill lit up a cigarette, began to dress. The young punk on the bed yakked about left wing crap. Bill turned off his hearing, the *** had been good, the talk not. He buttoned up his collar, tied his tie. Exhaled the smoke, put on his shoes. Walked to the small kitchen, flipped on the radio, put on the kettle. The young punk got off the bed, dressed, gazed at the older man in the kitchen, classic **** from the radio. Bill offered coffee and toast. The young punk said: ok, sat in a chair, pushed fingers through black hair, shoulder length. Bill took in the Debussy, turned on the toaster, made coffee. The kid was talking away, lit up, watched Bill's back, the shooter in an holster over the shoulder. Bill laid down the coffee and toast, sat opposite the punk, gentle spoke. The punk had liked the *** ate the toast, sipped the coffee, feared the shooter. The Debussy ended, Bach ***** music, punk yawned. Are you a cop? the punk asked. No, Bill said, in business. Business? the punk wondered what sort, exhaled smoke. Worldwide stuff, Bill said, musing on the arranged suicide **** in Iraq, dead is dead.
0
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC
DEAD IS DEAD 1999.
Bill lit up a cigarette, began to dress. The young punk on the bed yakked about left wing crap. Bill turned off his hearing, the *** had been good, the talk not. He buttoned up his collar, tied his tie. Exhaled the smoke, put on his shoes. Walked to the small kitchen, flipped on the radio, put on the kettle. The young punk got off the bed, dressed, gazed at the older man in the kitchen, classic **** from the radio. Bill offered coffee and toast. The young punk said: ok, sat in a chair, pushed fingers through black hair, shoulder length. Bill took in the Debussy, turned on the toaster, made coffee. The kid was talking away, lit up, watched Bill's back, the shooter in an holster over the shoulder. Bill laid down the coffee and toast, sat opposite the punk, gentle spoke. The punk had liked the *** ate the toast, sipped the coffee, feared the shooter. The Debussy ended, Bach ***** music, punk yawned. Are you a cop? the punk asked. No, Bill said, in business. Business? the punk wondered what sort, exhaled smoke. Worldwide stuff, Bill said, musing on the arranged suicide **** in Iraq, dead is dead.
AN AGENT AND THE PUNK 1999.
#punk#agent#1999
TerryCollett
Written by
TerryCollett
78/M
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem