#16

Owen's Detective Agency

When the trees move I hope there is a tan sedan
coming into the parking lot. I am meeting a Mr. Brown
today, again, and I believe he drives a tan sedan.

In my office, away from my wife in reception, under
my desk, is a pile of papers I have doodled on.
The phone calls come rarely, we might go under.

The way her skin is dry in the morning and evening,
but not in the noontime. We take a break to make love
after lunch. Then get Chinese and wait in the evening.

I tore all of the clocks from the desks and walls
one day. There is one in the safe if we need to check
for an appointment. I don't need to be mocked by walls.

We leave when the darkness deepens in the parking lot,
and the tan sedan never comes. The day is empty, I fielded a single
call about a cat. I laugh at the handicap spot in the parking lot.

In my dry dreams I am tied between two tan sedans,
dressed like a real gumshoe, when my alarm clock
sounds the cars always pull me apart, tan sedans.