His watch says 3:19am in liquid crystal.
The ambulance driver is bleeding out
in sweeping emergency light.
He had made good time.
Frank sticks his knuckles in an overhead freezer,
laying a knife on top.
Bar bottles are loaded
with girl laughs and barmaid chatter.
Red fingernails drum on the bar table top.
He lays in bed, conducting therapy
with the ceiling.
A woman cries, resting her forehead
on the curb by a limp hand.
A policeman in fluorescent signals,
reaches to knock on the door.
Frank flicks his collar up and adjusts
strut shoulders in a mirror.
A thumping crowd of silhouettes are swept
by prison searchlights in the club.
Rugby player’s head propelled through
cheesy chip shop window, wasted in neon white,
Frank’s hand holding back of head.
He smiles at his polo shirt pals
at the club entrance.
He closes the freezer, pulls nightcap
out of the fridge and walks upstairs to wait.
Syllable Syndrome 