Freudian Jazz

Sore, stitched and beaten, but not drunk,
I paid my clientele a visit.
Miss Amory was poised on her steps.
She had lost her key, misplaced it, hid it.
I pulled out my tool to pick the lock.
Her eyes smoldered: two embers.
I worked my magic on the door
and penetrated the apartment:
a cell draped in naked darkness.
A sound? My gun was quick . . . only the rain.
Katherine's breasts heaved and fought her dress.
Who would win the battle?
Light, revealing and concealing, flared.
They glistened wetly [lips].
"I've got news," my brain said.
My mouth said nothing. It burned on hers.
All the killings, beatings and drinking had vanished.
The fish tank bubbled: an animated painting.
Reaching into my coat pocket I grabbed two things:
a cigarette and her file with my report.
Dropping one and lighting the other
I went out the way I came in.
The best farewells are the shortest.