How Well He Made Seem

And how well boy made seem that the hammer in hand
was for the heads of the nails, not the head of a man;

and how well had his wife deftly acted her part
for the owner of bar: his cold bed; his old heart.

She had learned the two codes through the safe-box's locks
when she said don't you trust me? in nothing but socks.

How that rich old fool bill was no match for her eyes!
What a tool! (And a tool would soon be his demise.)

Bill had hired a strong dark-skinned boy to repair
the red awning outside that the winter'd worn bare.

Boy pried open the door with the opposite side
of the hammer he'd sharpened that morning beside

his gold naked young wife with obsidian hair,
a Caribbean wink and oblivious stare:

just this opiate girl in whose honor one might
send young Helen of Troy off to Carthage to fight.

So boy snuck with his tool to the office of bar
where sat old foolish Bill with his foolish guitar.

He was strumming a tune he could hardly recall
when the shadow appeared big and black on the wall

of a hammer—the singular shape of its head