The Movie
An impulse led him to the Cineplex
That dull Sunday afternoon in May
To crush his consciousness of his guilty complex,
Borne by the woman who abused him in different ways.
The celluloid screen would mask the horror
Of what was his pathetic life
As he’d immerse in adventure and furor,
Forgetting his woes over pop and popcorn in the back seat.
But the movie was a remake of his suffering.
Instead of a swashbuckler dashing across the screen,
There was a screechy scream, and the flehm
From her dying breath and futile gesturing.
The piercing cries in that dark corridor
Echoed within him when he sliced her into a hundred pieces
But the black suitcase he clutched was sore.
From within it rang songs of lament from a broken peace.
As he wriggled between the sheets yearning for his mistress
He sighed with relief that the movie was only a dream,
But there was a shiny red suitcase that sat silent
By the table stand and the stench woke him
From yet another dream!
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