Detective Sestina
By: Gray Davis

At midnight, I sat in a car at the center of the city, 
      
The cab, slowly filling with smoke
  
Looking at the pale back of a slinky broad.

She was blonde as hell, wearing all black.
 
In the neon glow, I saw the shine of her pistol.
  
I pulled my hat down lower, just in case.  

 

I had to follow her. That was the case.

I didn’t ask why, no one did in this city

Where your only friend is your pistol.

Through the cigarette and rising sewer smoke,

I saw her recede into an alley of black.

More like a snake than a broad.

 
You should never trust a broad.

Never trust anybody. Not when you’re on the case.

I’ve loved too many women in black.

I’ve seen too much of this city.

The rain fell hard through the smoke

As I stepped out of the car and cocked my pistol.

 

A shot from the alley, fired from a pistol

Made me sprint through the veil of smoke.

Each drop of rain hit my face like a spent bullet case

Fired from a gun far above the city.

I entered the alley and looked for her dress of black.

 

At the other end, I saw a light through the black.

My only sense, the grip of my pistol

And the smell of the blood soaked city.

Then there she was, the broad,

The beacon of light, the end of her smoke.

 

I saw her smile through the smoke,

A thin gleam of white in the black.

The man who had hired me for the case.

Lay on the ground, killed by the pistol

Still resting in the hand of the broad

Everything stood on display, her, me, the city.

 

It was beautiful, the smoke, the broad,

Posing with a pistol, everything white and black

As if she and the whole city were inside a glass case.