Proposition

           after Alfred Hitchcock

Something about the lure of the moon, the black-and-
white gloom of futon and Turner Classic Movies, the sub-

suming chug of the train pulls me to you, you 
campy Raskolnikov, you backlit chatterbox, criss-

crossed legs and double scotch perched 
on Promethean overreach. You muse, dear

Bruno, on the perfect murder, the ol’ switcheroo, 
the you do me and I’ll do you, but how to

iron out the details? And does the plot matter as much 
as the style? The deceitful lipstick, the voyeuristic

shut-in with his long lens longing for legs 
that dance across the courtyard. Of course,

I’ve had the thought and followed it
up a winding staircase. I’ve rolled its smooth

weight between my fingers like a memento 
mori marble, a lacquered pawn, admiring

the geometry of possibility. But what if
I get jittery? Or what if you double-cross me

as my inner-ear condition sets the room spinning. 
You leave me miles from the highway with no alibi

and a deviated septum? No, I don’t trust your 
fancy scripted tie clip, you devious Francophile

with a father complex, you won’t latch yourself 
to me. Already I tread on your shadow, I gaze

into the alleyway’s seductive dark and lust 
for ways to end you. Oh, I won’t hold back

for Hays Codes or good taste, I’ll creep
up to your peephole dressed in mother’s best.

And after I finish throttling your neck, I’ll listen 
to the pitch of your taxidermied doves.