The Reporter

I laid on the ground, face up
looking into the black and white scene
of two people hovering with a blue sky
hunched over them. One was a reporter
with a big 1950’s vintage camera; she snapped
a button twice – phuff, phuff,
the pregnant bulb flashed and hissed.
I wanted to cover my eyes but
my arms . . . they wouldn’t.
The detective wore a suit and tie
with a satin-banded fedora shading
his squinched, prune-like face.
He took a drag of his Lucky Strike
and exhaled a stench of smoke and garlic
while the reporter smacked her Dubble Bubble
and shook her head at me.
My eyes locked onto the horned-rim glasses
of the gum smacking reporter.
The detective said, “He’s a goner. Finish
your pictures and let’s get out‘a here.”
“Wait,” she said. “He moved!”
“No way, Harriet. He got popped twice.
See the holes? No pulse, girlie.”
Two men in white coats picked me up.
I felt the lumpy gurney stabbing me
as they unfolded a sheet to cover me up.
“WAIT!” I shouted. “I’M NOT DEAD!”
The reporter turned at my shout but the
detective held her arm and pulled her away.
No one else heard me.