by John Grey
Another man disappears overnight.Someone says they saw the cops outside the door to the apartment building.About midnight it was.That’s what happens when you talk too muchand in earshot of the wrong people.Another reckons he just flew the coop.Too many bills, too much family.Maybe to bed down with some cocktail waitresson the other side of town.Of course, in the days ahead.conspiracy theories will thrive better than flower potsin tenement windows.The coffee house will rattlewith cups and bizarre explanations. He was a spy. There was no such person. He was murdered, chopped into little pieces, tossed out with the garbage.They love this stuff.It gets people outdoorsand into company.It spikes conversation.It bubbles over into joy.Someone disappearsThose still aroundare much more here.