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!