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Johnny hates, loves, can’t escape, her. Poetry is like that. Your muse.

Run away and there she’ll be—flipping her blindingly bronzed hair back,

glistening, radiant.

Johnny, Glenn Ford, speechless.

In charge of outlawed Buenos Aires casino, and Gilda. A bad Casablanca. She

kisses anyone;

Johnny lies to protect her husband, Ballin, his boss. Intervenes, punches

out a few stiffs,

she’s killing him. About to off her—when Ballin’s plane nosedives into the

River Plate. Poof.

Johnny a cheater and gambler. Marries-refuses-punishes her.

Drunk, she sings at club, starts to strip. Isn’t that like poetry, wanting to

dance-drink-bare all?

All to get back at Johnny. That’s you. The writer.

To hell with you Johnny. You said you loved me and left.

Necklace unclasped. Long black glove inched off a creamy arm.

Someone help me with this zipper.

Escapes to Montevideo—what poem wouldn’t? Only to fall for Johnny’s

man

who deposits her back in Argentina. You brute! You cut lines—rearrange

stanzas—toss

entire drafts. You, you—wait! Blinds tremble.

Ballin! Alive! With gun! Bathroom attendant, who insults Johnny, angers

him, who,

when Johnny threatens with loss of job, ever-present inner critic who

calmly replies

I will be here long after you are gone,

shoots Ballin dead. Little guy in dirty smock, that arranges unused

colognes, saves the day.

Some call it a crap ending, others a roll of dice. Detective trailing lovebirds,

grins knowingly,

A person cannot die twice.

Other work by Ann Cefola