It Rains in the Movies Too

A belted coat, like Bogey’s,

or some hard-boiled

operative’s while he wanders

smoking, smiling, snarling

across the screen,

from blonde to brunette

reactive cut-out cardboard woman

counting days backwards

in the bathroom

with a gin-and-coathanger

for a cocktail.

The kind of coat

you never wear

without a hat

that signifies

the blackness

of your heart

or the purity

of your soul.

But no raincoat for Gene

in puddles on plywood

Main Street in a downpour,

tapping, twirling, twinkling

along the street,

from cop to car-lot

and homeless street-life hardened hobos

drinking days downward

on the nickel

with some meths and turpentine

from one bottle.