Taut line of thin manila, rope creaking,
on dusty rafters swinging.
In your shame.
Forty years of dead weight, then
like a pendulum still.
It was three days before we knew.
Crackle of stylus on vinyl dry
like a hill, up and down it spirals
through endless back streets;
round and round,
Nina Simone in a smoky jazz bar
on your record player;
patrons sipping on cognacs,
oblivious to your indignity, your shame
your cat alone,
and a patch of urine dry, the stench
at the point when muscles collapsed,
no control; the noose
nudging breath from a tired body;
Early summer rain.