Daphne Martinez,
star of one segment of a TV show,
tonight plays a dead prostitute
with a killer’s letter to God
written on her back
in black Sharpie.

Jeremey Raine, not far away,
practicing his handwriting
with one eye on the news,
leans forward to hide
the pistol in his belt.

On screen the neighbors chime in
just as he wanted: good kid until
she got into drugs, the creeps
on the streets, city’s gone to hell…

it’s a wrap.
Next up, tragic
bus accident.
They’re selling
classical music favorites
by the time Jeremey makes it
out the door.

He leaves
the Sharpie behind.
Bartender picks it up
and uses it to make up
a sign: No Drinks Made
With More Than Two Kinds
Of Liquor. That’ll teach
the damn college kids.
He changes the TV.

Daphne Martinez is not saying anything
about the way she’s twisted around
on the sidewalk. The detective rubs
his eyes: what looked like a ramble
to God is changed now to some message
about liquor. No one here is talking sense,
not even the corpse.

Jeremey’s no fool. He dumped
the murder weapon back at the bar.
The gun’s just for show.
He knows the medium makes the message.
He’s already plotting the next show.