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into the tight quarters of her apartment
in the Motor City.
His eyes tilted from the pendulous sway
of her hips to the
clean rhythm of her shoulders,
pumping back and forth like pistons.
Stripped clothes fall to the floor
like sheet metal from a wreckage,
a muffler on the highway,
clattering to sizzle on their fingers
The assembly line.
They fucked and forgot each other
and jumped from separate windows
onto the sidewalk before the casino.
Their collective fate would amount
to a crooked chalk outline,
the silohuette of a one dimensional
dance out of hell, into
the police chief sat before the
blackjack table holding 19.
The dealer rolled out 20, the officer
flicked his thumb, unsnapping the holster
on his hip, and placed the barrel
to his temple.
He forgot to say goodbye to the world,
just like his last 10 paychecks,
his savings, the kids' college funds,
the mortgage on the home,
his wife's anniversary present...
Blood would stain the cards and felt,
the plastic chips forever.
The surrounding streets, filled
with vacant factories,
produced nothing but junkies and murder victims.
The broken windows and stripped paint
would testify to the shootings, the
mother's son held a gun to the belly of a bum.
Blood would spread onto street corners
to drown the shotgun shells and unopened condoms
that littered the ground.
In the alleys, college kids drop bottles to
run shirtless from the police,
while the crackheads sleep soft and sound
at the bottom of industrial dumpsters.