HIT MAN

                                                             
Floyd's grin outshone
his orange umbrella and two-tone
saddle shoes, the job was rewarding
these days and the hours even


better, strolling, no strutting, along
Fifth Avenue on this breezy, drizzly
Fall Saturday he was Hillary triumphal
on top of infinite Everest,


Berra crouched low chuckling to himself
behind Yankee Stadium’s home plate,
Captain Cook standing tall
on the sensual white beaches
of Tahiti,


and he knew in his hidden Beretta
and swollen silver money belt
that life for all its vexations
and occasional honest cop
was good, hell, real good, all the way
down to the bone.


Turning onto Twenty-Fourth
and into the small quiet shop
just off the corner, he shot the jeweler
with the gambling habit once
through the throat, carefully wiped


fingerprints with a clean handkerchief,
stepped out to the happy sidewalk
and an Autumn afternoon refreshed
by a good day’s work towards uptown


where he treated his freckled daughter
to a strawberry shake and plate heaped
with crisp fries at her favorite malt shop
after the double feature.