Jim’s parting words
Were Vee’s hex to him
As the door closed,
Rattling the metal cage;
Lane, watching him
Intently from
Behind the cab window,
Assumed as if water
As Jim walked away….
The silver chain
He had in his palm
Was not as cold as that muscle;
No, it was slightly hot,
Hot to the touch,
So when the car pulled over in the fusillade
Lane repeated Vee’s name
While he gathered the sovereigns.
The wind carried down yesterday’s debris,
Cans and newspapers
Were lining the tawdry streets;
He stood in front
Of a four-story building
That was covered in dust and graffiti.
There, he saw the peaks
Of the tower of kings,
Saw the weighty pall in the periphery;
Saw the grey overpass,
Fiddlers and raconteurs,
Tinted shapes of passing women...
He could hear it then,
From the far distance:
Vee’s voice as it drew closer to him.
But the silver chain
That Jim had handed him
Was now a totem in his hand—
For it had turned into a writhing snake.
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