They demand it be simple like the possible backstory
For the bobby pin on the floor and those benched around
Laboring relatively on the beat. Rich with tentative accounts,
The suggestions will simply be decorative. A patterned housing

A leg encased in netting, the wig from which it fell. The night
All shades and hue, the possibility of shady characters stupefied
And shirtless, the districts traveled in a bumpy flash on cobblestone
Continuously abrupt, smoothing out the strays she self-consciously

Sways, pushing back the strands, sealing leaky speech. Somehow
She can seem sophisticated through a facade of unmarked doors
She wears as lockets and rings, locks and rings of pointless entry.
She catches a strand with a wrinkling hand preoccupied by possibly

Now and what will follow and as it unravels the shrapnel fellows to the
Floor just an hour before the nameless, her men followed out the door.
As slung over the local telephone wire, dangling kicks like keys on a line,
Seldom walkers wonder by and even less the dealers don’t know why.

Only details left for private eyes who notice the pin a bobbing on the
Swelling of now buoyant floor. The evidence of demented reality,
Reveals dimensions of reconstructed criminality and deeper did they
Follow steps imagined. Shadowed by the present. Hidden in pieces

Left forensic. Dusting prints. Documented fragments. Somehow some
Stories down goes Bobby pinned to the ground.