The guttural growl of the sax
and I am surrounded by twisted smoke
in the interrogation room.
"What do you have for me, sweetheart?"
Dick Tracy-wannabe who framed this babe.
I’m prolonging inevitable doom.
He wants to know about running giggle juice
and the Chicago overcoat found empty.
Dawn is coming all too-soon.
"There was nothing left in the joint—
just a bunch of John’s.” I smile.
"You know, peepers like you."
It won’t be in the Rumble tomorrow.
Sister found dead on the side of the road,
outside the interrogation room.