The Hitman
I strangled the journalist with the belt
Of his piss-elegant, linen robe
In the hallway of the top-floor of the
Candy Archer Hotel. The cigar dangling
From his smile & ice bucket he held
Fell to the blue berber carpet & I made
Tracks out of there, stopping for crawfish
Etouffee at a chophouse on Finnick Avenue
Before my rendezvous with the clients
At the boathouse;--the clients who gave me
The gat that graced the inside pocket of my
Jacket I didn’t care to use. I would’a
Snatched the muckraker’s Cuban too, but I
Quit last year when I got married.
T. Garrison O’Donnell is a poet originally from Virginia, currently living and working in North Florida. His poems tend to be greatly influenced by and about movies.
Pulsebeat Poetry Journal 