Silent Era

A black limousine crawls in
to the parking lot behind the store,
its wheels crackling on hot asphalt.
Acacia bushes rustle softly
as housewives push their purchases
up to the backs of vans,
children pulling at their hands.
A security guard watches the limo
as it cruises through the lot
and is reminded of a snake.
His hand moves slowly to his holster.
The sun beats down in waves,
somewhere there is a radio
with lap steel and ukeleles.
A dog writhes inside a hot car.
The limo stops at the curb,
a man pours out the rear door
made of oil, shoes slick black,
dark suit rippling as he strides
between the rows of parked cars.
The sun reflected in obsidian shades
seems like fire pouring from his head,
all the security guard sees is
a sharp suit and some dark stars.
He slides down the wall unconscious.
The suit bears down on a blue corvette
in which a girl is applying lipstick.
In the air, murder is palpable.
There is a high pitched ringing sound
as the suit pulls a silver revolver
with a long barrel from his belt.
The hammer goes back, the cylinder
turns with the motion of a clock.
He lifts his arm―
                          there is a crashing noise
as the laugh track cuts in and out
and the image flickers in slow motion.
The scene is plunged into darkness,
the actors scream in their confusion
soundlessly, through roaring static.
There is an explosion―
                                       and takes her hand
as she steps out of the car in a blue dress.
They dance beneath the streetlight,
her hand on his chest, his at her waist,
as the heavens are seared with nuclear fire,
and a cacophony of saxophones and trumpets
pours from the falling buildings around them.
He holds her hand as she removes his glasses
and leans in for a kiss―