What kind of case was this.
A murdered palm tree.
Must be a delusion.
But the dame was paying big bucks
and had bronzed legs longer than a run-on sentence.
So I took a drive.
She lived in Malibu.
It figured.
All the bad things happen
in Malibu or Chinatown.

As I drove
I glared at the sea.
Wanted to be there
on my own private yacht
idling three miles from the coast
looking at it all from the distance
not seeing the filth and insanity
that starts on this shore
and then slides like rancid grease
all the way to the Atlantic.

The sea just glared back.
A look that made me
reach for my sunglasses
before I remembered
I’d left them in that massage parlor
or maybe that bar on 6th and Belmont.
Same night, different lousy lighting
assaulting my eyes til I grew accustomed.
And I always do.
Just enough to get into mischief.