Dull echo foosteps on a lonely street,
lamplight through fog. And what transpires
is always sad, and hardly ever neat.
Who shot the chauffeur? Noone cares.
The hero is too busy with his soul
walking mean streets and having love affairs
with sassy women who combine the role
of predator and prey, of wife and whore,
poured in tight dresses, hair over one eye
punished in most films just for wanting more
than he could give them. Watch the films and sigh
that noir could see so much, and not the whole
do class and power, yet hardly ever try
with race and sex. Yet it still hits the beat
of city life that thrums along the wires
electric, and you hear the traffic's roar
sweet melodies, hot sex and dark despairs.
Happy birthday, sweetie.