Bogie in Pale Gray and Lavender
a poem of color by Stephen Beal
I can be stitching along on a canvas, needing a shade that holds the light without getting hot,
and 762 will come to mind.
I am always grateful for this gray.
I take it from my plastic bag of grays feeling good about my choice,
the way that Humphrey Bogart, private eye,
would select a linen suit for a busy summer day:
morning spent on a case, then lunch at the track,
followed by the afternoon trifecta.
With his pale gray suit Bogie wears a lavender shirt,
a navy polka-dot foulard.
His hat’s a cream Panama, banded with navy,
and the camera follows the races through reflections
in his sunglasses, smoked gray with gold rims,
the horses thundering across his temples toward Alexis Smith,
who has plans for him that afternoon.
Bogie’s boxers are blue broadcloth,
too full for his bony frame,
and you can see a wet patch at the base of his singlet
as he leans over to snap his garters just as Alexis fires.
“So you’re the one who killed the Countess!” he declares.
Alexis in a peach satin slip is weeping.
“This doesn’t mean that I don’t love, you, ” she responds,
then blows her brains out on the bed that would have marked
the start of her redemption,
had she not loved money more.
What do you say about a gray that goes to bloodbaths
and comes out looking spiffy every time?
“Customary cool,” the morning Eagle blares.
In the front page photos, Bogie stands
on the sidewalk with the cops, turning to light a cigareette
as the medics wheel his lady love away.
