A little Noir to get us going …
Half-hooded eyes flit the room,
from under his trilby,
weighing up the showgirls,
looking at the
that go up to their armpits.
Other trilbies nod as he enters,
they are waiting
shuffling their spat-covered shoes,
pulling at their waistcoats,
buying last minute beer and chasers.
Voices rise as the room becomes fuller.
The band, nine men strong, riffle
through the cream-coloured music sheets;
black ant notes
visible from the bar.
They too are impatient.
From the back of the stage, shouts:
‘Get your hands offa me, I’m going on.’
Ears wag toward the stage curtain, but
the rejoinder cannot be heard.
She swings the curtain back dramatically,
see how it swishes as she makes her entrance.
Her eyebrows arch and we
can’t help but notice,
under the makeup,
We know who gave them to her,
she will kill him one day.
Then the man in the trilby at the top
of this story,
remember him, half hooded eyes
that flit the room?
Well, he’ll be onto it when she does it.
The cynical hard-boiled type; always there first.
Polly Robinson © 2013