JULY 13 (The Chase)

I'm going to miss you, Robert Mitchum,
as I make my rounds in lower Manhattan
checking the progress of Joe DiMaggio's
56-game hitting streak the way you did
in Farewell, My Lovely. Next to Bogart
you were the best Philip Marlowe. Smart,
too. Getting arrested for marijuana use the
year I was born was a shrewd career move.
Sleepless by instinct, you looked like
a car mechanic and were a fighter whose best
moment came when he got off the canvas
and took another punch. You lost every fight
with the woman in the houseboat who sang
"There's a fire down below in my heart."
She came out of the past and now at last
you've joined her in some South American
beach where escaped convicts dream
of going, and I'm walking on Sixth Avenue
with your groggy voice in my mind
daring the world to surprise you.

      Strong scent of before-rain

Her pinstripe two-lane
legs, her blackmail menthol.

She had all the negatives

Hidden safe
& would not reveal the place.

Before you could say
denouement, I was on her case —

Slant hat, broad
Back, my entrenched coat

Of fog. Fleabags,
Neon blinds undrawn —

The foreshadows fell on her face.

All night I tailed, staked
the joint. Found

Her with the butler
playing patty-cake

 

poor, please.
Shadows & smiles, she was.

.

Behind the tough exterior...(open book).

Baker's man. She nursed
him like beer

Till dawn. Doozy.
Was from her woozy,

My eyes wet.
Binocular mist.

Her snuffed, stubbed out
lipstick cigarette.

I took two to the chest

Was all
rain, her blurring face