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 much
and 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 waitress
on the other side of town.
Of course, in the days ahead.
conspiracy theories
will thrive better than flower pots
in tenement windows.
The coffee house will rattle
with 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 outdoors
and into company.
It spikes conversation.
It bubbles over into joy.
Someone disappears
Those still around
are much more here.
