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Noir moll“I make a lot of money,” he said, 

to no one in particular,

which was a lie. He’d gambled it away

at blackjack in Vegas, where the dark bar

had as many ugly girls as cute plump chicks,

which was fine with him. He was after their

money, not their virginity. The bar 

had a name. What was it? That’s right.

The Ace of Clubs. His lucky card.

He wanted someone whose name he might find 

on a plaque in a manicurist’s salon: Destiny, 

Divina, Celeste. He’d know her face

sure as he knew when to hit and when to stay. 

That was the way it was supposed to happen.

He would walk into her dream the way

Steve McQueen walked into a poker game. 

It excited her. His blonde looks, his cute butt.

And then the talk turned to money.

“Charity,” he’d say, “What’s a million dollar

babe like you doing in a dump like this?” 

It wasn’t original but neither was she. 

She’d wriggle and tell him how she wanted 

to be a dolphin trainer or a product tester at Revlon, 

then she’d blot her lips and toss off

the trust fund, the Mercedes, the polo pony’s

gold-plated shoes glinting fine as luck. 

What a horny man will do for a fuck.


—Diane D.N. Redfern is the nom de plume of an American poet who divides her time between Miami and  New York. Under her proper name she has written a novel of intrigue involving gambling and the cocaine trade. She picked the drawing that accompanies this post.

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