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the neck tie
The Necktie
He woke up fully dressed, minus his tie, in the lumpy bed
of a third-rate hotel, which had a fridge beside the TV
The last semi-civilized place, one up from sleeping rough
The room reeked of depravity, and a dusty curtain
protecting the inhabitants from the cruel world outside
The news was about a woman who strngled with a tie
He sat up, and he had lost his tie
The tie was green with black dots on it, should he ring
the TV station and ask what color the tie is?
Or should he remorsefully and fearfully sober confess
to a murder he could not remember having committed
The fridge rumbled, he got up, opened it, in the hope of
finding a cold beer; there, wrapped around a bottle
whisky, a red necktie
Copyright ©
Jan Hansen
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