his eyes, full and enraged

like two moons. The smoke

from the corner of his mouth

slick like Bogart, cool like Bacall

the trilby turned down, the

moustache and the leer, the

raised eyebrow, the flash

of the teeth in monochrome

endlessly rerun, he is a patchwork

of black and white dots, a form

twisted out of turn by time,

distorted slyly by space

framed by the outlines of the screen,

jammed in his room, finger twitching,

he shrinks to the point of nothingness

and disappears, still cool, unfazed