Match Point

They stepped into the shadows
where, he struck a match
and lit her cigarette.

Tendrils of smoke waltzed,
above their heads.
She whispered
(through wine-dyed lips),

“Have you got it?”

He reached into his breast-pocket,
and pulled out a tan paper, folded,
as her slender gloved hand waited to palm
it from him.

It slid, so easily
into her clutch and she clicked it

It was then, he decided,
all too much had been confided
—she had to go,
so as she turned—
to slink away into the night,
his leathered hands surrounded
her long neck.

Though she struggled—
valiantly (he’d have to check that
bruise on his right calf),
eventually, she slumped,
and he dumped her
to the cold cobbles, where
rain was starting to spit.

He did a flit, but not before
sliding the letter once more behind
his lapel. Just as well,
he remembered, but
he did not recall that she had
held the box of matches as he lit her smoke
(such a gentleman)
and poked them in her pocket,

until he was sitting at the hotel table
with a cup of muddy coffee,
pulled out his case of cigarettes
and pat his hip for a light.

Kat Mortensen©2010



Lies roll
       off your tongue  
              like the tides run
                     under a lunatic moon.
You can’t control them anymore
         than the sun can cease to burn
                ’til the hand of God snuffs it out.
How many more will you tell, to protect
your secrets?

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker