A Collection of Poems - 5. Under Neon Lights

UNDER NEON LIGHTS

I was walking back home
Warm evening
Smell of tar
An old man was limping down my building's staircase
The bag that he carried seemed a heavy burden
I even thought of a corpse he'd have to get rid of
It's my laundry he said
And sure he'd tell me where the laundromat is
Why didn't I come along in the cab he had called
His grandmother was from Orleans
And he used to speak eight languages
We got to the place
took care of our stuff
We sat down for a beer
His red gaze wandered somehow around my face
Those eyes made me feel transparent
It must be why I barely listened to his words
While he gave me his life
His service, the bars in Orleans in nineteen fifty eight
For his grandmother she was from Orleans you know
His wars, his murders nasty things, his V.Cs, his escapes, his jungle
His kids and his buddies
His fucking wife
(She must have left him)
He had drunk enough to want to become everybody's friend
But I was the one
He knew about the things he would have to show me.
The places I would drive him too
Some French cemetery (I happened to be French) The talks we were to have
I used to speak eight languages with the Intelligence.
At one point he said I'm not gay
My uneasiness must have begun to show
And it smelt of laundry and cigarettes and beer
The sound of the blaring T.V.
We stopped talking
Checked the washing cycle
Put our clothes in the dryer
I was done talking
I watched T.V.
He drank more beer
He said the cab's waiting for us
My clothes weren't even dry yet
But I got into the cab
He was telling the driver
How horny that girl on the telephone sounded
I didn't say a word as the cab took us home.