DAY NOIR

There isn’t much to say

about that day in the dead

of winter.

It was cold.

It was wet.

I stepped off the sidewalk

into Maggie's Place.

Three men sat mumbling

over beer and didn’t look up.

I shook the drops off my hat,

ordered a shot,

threw my jacket on a table

at the back, and took out that

journal I never use.

There is something intimidating

about pages with calendar dates

for every day of the year.

She walked in looking like every 

man’s dream and greatest fear.

A few bits of snow clung with the 

water on her shoulders, but her hair 

glowed warm and red in the neon.

I took a sip to cut the chill

from the door she’d opened

and thumbed the pages.

In the shadows of my corner,

I rolled a cigarette and watched

her lean into a shot of bourbon.

The red stain she left on the rim

of that little glass titillated the air.

A chair scraped the floor…

one of the mumblers walked

over to where she sat, ordered a drink,

stared down at the back of her head.

When he left, she turned a little,

made a casual survey, caught my eyes, but

didn’t pause, then gave the three men

a disinterested once-over.

Another bourbon and two cigarettes later, 

she pulled the collar tight around her neck, and walked out.

The journal is an ugly blue,

another thing I don’t like about it...

But here it is, January twelfth. Today.

A day outside of time, eight thirty-eight pm.

My father died. 

A day when nothing ever happens.

Reviews

[Lorry]

Nothing much happened the day my Dad died, but talking of what happened earlier in the week... 9/11.
I still to this day remember the last conversation we had. I had left work to go visit him and no one was telling him anything, but I just spoke to him about things he loved and knew, which were his beloved Celtic and newspapers.
In all the years that have since passed, I have never heard anyone sum up what happened as well as he did when he heard. He just shook his head, tutted and said "b******s."
I only mention that because it had the same impact on me as your end lines here. Father died. A day when nothing ever happens. Wow!
What an understatement to a day you would never ever forget.

[Vol]

It is true, though. my father was always influential in whatever circle he traveled, He had a profound effect on many people. None of them knew he died, many of them had already doneso themselves, on the whole, his death was a non-event for everyone except my mom and we three sons... And so it is for all of us unrecognized poets, writers, and artists. Like Mark Twain said, I was dead for billions of years before I lived, I can do it again... I'm not sure what that means in non-linear time,

[jacob erin-cilberto]

"every man's dream and greatest fear"---great line.
I like the description of her...enticing...and yet, the chill as she opened the door...a suggestion of her coldness? perhaps.
I remember the day my father died...March 3...a very blue day on which I wrote blue poems.
This is a really good story...even when nothing happens, something does.
j.

[Vol]

Jacob, thank you!
Nothing happens in the poem, either. Not a word spoken, no interaction between characters, nothing new to add to the journal, Going all the way back to the fifth century, nothing notable ever happened on January 12.

[Chris Shaw]

That last line hits like a punch in the gut. My world suffered an earthquake the day my Dad died. I remember each and every hour leading up to him breathing his last. And you too remember the detail too.You never forget the detail. Yours was like a scene from a movie. Love your descriptive writing style with its attention to imagery. You bring in the colour. You carry the reader with every single word.

Chris

[Vol]

Thanks, Chris!
Some things fill a space in our minds and leave no room for anything else...

[Ken Simm.]

Indeed this is a scene from a movie. Or perhaps a painting such as Nighthawks. A true piece of twentieth century Americana and wonderfully done.

[Vol]

Ken!
Thanks... It was intended, a scene from 1933 or so, Bogart could play my role, and Jessica Rabbit the redhead... On the other hand, I'd have followed her out with my umbrella...

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

It's funny how random things collide, with seemingly no connection at all; and yet, they are interwoven together. The last two lines are like a gut punch.

"My father died.
A day when nothing ever happens."

This reads like the scene from a movie. The dust clings to the soul.

[Vol]

Linda,
Thank you, That's kind of what I had in mind... Film Noir, a la Bogart...