Start with a man in a hotel lobby:
a little untrustworthy, a little debonair,
blue along the jaw, breezy aftershave,
plump hands, pleated pants, a pompadour
like black felt. Ladies hurry past,
murmuring That's him. Men with ankle holsters
hover in his periphery. His eyes slot down,
his lips twist incessantly. Orders are going out
into the world of men, moves,
counter-moves, strategies summoning fate.
Your father will die tonight. Or a man
like your father, while another is exalted
for his clean razor, his sliced capicola. A certain
can-can dancer, ginger-haired, volatile, will
be handed a bus ticket to Miami Beach,
told to play it smart. Life's brutal
decisions are getting made. Bravery. Loyalty.
Bad luck. All this matters. Your father,
with his overcoat, his cornered look, is nothing
like this man in his dark halo of a hat,
who smooths his brow, looks up, walks
past you, right past you. You could have
touched his arm. You could have
done something. But you only stood
there, smelling cigars and wool,
success, consequences, the scent of action.
Hurry home. Run. Warn him.