NIGHT BEFORE.

The old four-poster bed
Creaks; Bill notices as he
Sits down in the bedroom

Booked for him by the
Agency. He bounces up
And down, memories.

The Krakow boy some
Years back. Never wastes
Money on accommodation

Does the agency, he muses,
Taking a quick glance round
The room. An old wardrobe

With a mirror, chest of drawers,
Bed, paintings on the walls,
Old carpet that’s seen better

Days. His father said he’d end
Up this way: broke, bottom
Of the food chain, police

Record, chain smoker, bum,
Loser. He drags on the cigarette,
Watches the smoke rise to the

Ceiling. The target is in the
City; he’d seen the photo then
Destroyed it. Memorized. If he

Dreams of old hits he never
Says. Once dead, stays dead
Is his motto. On the last hit the

Woman had been quite a looker.
He thought so, but business was
Business, she had to go. Women

Were an option, but he preferred
Young men, clean-shaven, neat,
Slim. He stands up and walks to

The window and peers out. Night
Falling, city lights on. Tomorrow
Was hit day; the target wouldn’t

Know what hit him. Bill hopes
The guy has a good last few hours,
Has a good meal, last few drinks,

Last shaft with some pretty dame.
The street is full of dead souls,
Cars, buses, people moving on by

Below. The agency has spared no
Expense. He knows these rooms
By the smells, the ghosts crowding

In, the smoke stains on the ceilings,
The cigarette burns in the carpet.
He inhales deeply and watches

A spider rush along its web for
The trapped fly buzzing in its
Wild language its last goodbye.