Today's dual prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "superhero" or "supervillain" poem, and (2) write a poem using the descriptive language of a hard-boiled detective novel. These two prompts, especially put together, practically begged to be written in prose. I tried my best to make it more of a prose poem than just normal prose, but I'm not sure if I succeeded. Anyway, I had fun with it - something I've been trying to do a lot this week to lighten my mood, as I've had to deal with a bout of COVID. Fortunately, my symptoms were relatively mild and this weekend I felt well enough to mow my lawn and do yard work. Anyway, here's my imagining of a private detective with super powers.
Dick Shamus,
Supersleuth
It was a dark and rainy night, the kind of rain
that can soak a guy to the bone, and saturate his best blue gabardine suit
because he forgot his raincoat and it takes so long to dry out
that it smells musty the next day and it costs 20 smackers to get dry-cleaned.
Not like that ever happened to me.
I was spending the evening with my old friend Klondike
Solitaire
when she walked in. She had gams that would make a gazelle jealous,
and a waterfall of long blonde hair cascading down her back like...
well, like a waterfall. (I said it was wet outside.)
She batted her deep-green peepers at me. I batted them right back.
"That's no way to treat tiny free frogs," I scolded her.
"You've got to help me, Mr. Shamus!" she cried.
"I think my husband
is cheating on me with another woman!"
"You've come to the right place, baby," I replied.
"I'm the only private eye
in this penny-ante town with super powers."
"So you're the best gumshoe in the city?"
"Sweetheart, no one has better gumshoes.
Mine are so gummy that they can walk up the side of buildings.
And that's not all. I can see around corners,
hear a whisper from a block away,
and shoot a cigarette out of a guy's mug from 300 yards."
"Wow."
"And what's more, I have amazing intuitive and
deductive powers.
For instance I'll bet your husband is five-foot-five,
balding with a pale complexion―"
"Actually, he's six-foot-two with a full head of wavy
black hair,
with a swarthy complex―"
"Yeah, I'll bet he's smarmy. Stick with me baby,
we'll get to the bottom of this funny business."
She rolled her eyes. Now I knew she had the hots for me.
"It's gonna be a long night," she said.
"Only as long as you want it to be, doll," I
winked.
"You really are clueless," she smirked.
"Not for long," I replied.
[To Be Continued]
It was a dark and rainy night, the kind of rain
that can soak a guy to the bone, and saturate his best blue gabardine suit
because he forgot his raincoat and it takes so long to dry out
that it smells musty the next day and it costs 20 smackers to get dry-cleaned.
Not like that ever happened to me.
when she walked in. She had gams that would make a gazelle jealous,
and a waterfall of long blonde hair cascading down her back like...
well, like a waterfall. (I said it was wet outside.)
She batted her deep-green peepers at me. I batted them right back.
"That's no way to treat tiny free frogs," I scolded her.
is cheating on me with another woman!"
in this penny-ante town with super powers."
Mine are so gummy that they can walk up the side of buildings.
And that's not all. I can see around corners,
hear a whisper from a block away,
and shoot a cigarette out of a guy's mug from 300 yards."
For instance I'll bet your husband is five-foot-five,
balding with a pale complexion―"
with a swarthy complex―"
we'll get to the bottom of this funny business."
"It's gonna be a long night," she said.
3 comments:
Very funny, Bruce. You really capture the hard-boiled detective vibe well. Bravo!
Oh! I forgot ... I hope you're recovering well from covid. I found I was tired a lot afterwards, for quite a while.
I'm feeling just about 100% again. Fortunately it only felt like a mild to moderate cold for about a week. I never even had a fever.
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