In noir, nothing arrives. It has been reassigned.
Downpours warp the street into spliced, rinsed silver,
and the ice cream truck sits with its collar up.
I am in the diner,
Waitressing, pouring coffee onto formica,
the spill taking its own direction,
the spoon diving without instruction,
the drain doing its job.
Across the pane, the ice cream truck
holds its bright intent,
stickered sleek,
in that flat fruit posture.
In noir, nothing arrives. It has been reassigned.