Plausible Deniability (or The Grey, the Black, and the Brown)

FIVE minutes before closing time, the man in the grey suit was the only customer at the bar. As the bartender began purging glasses of their varyingly intoxicating contents, and wiping down the tables where the more intoxicating varieties, or the less intoxicating in larger amounts, had been consumed, the grey-clad man gazed into a nearly empty glass of beer, as if hesitant to take the final sips and so end the pleasure of the drink.
    Four minutes before closing time, a man in a black suit walked into the bar, the chime on the door sounding loud against the quiet contemplation of the grey-clad man and the almost stealthy cleaning-up of the bartender. He laid down his black overcoat on one of the barstools and waited until the bartender was once more behind the counter.
    “A Scotch,” the black-clad man said.
    The bartender selected what seemed a fitting glass for the precious liquid.
    The black-clad man turned to the grey-clad man. “He’s coming.”
    “I never really cared for Scotch,” said the bartender, pulling a cork out of a bottle.
    “Is it tonight, then?” said the grey-clad man.
    “It’s too dry.” The bartender poured out the golden-brown liquid into the glass.
    “We have no choice,” said the black-clad man.
    “Give me a good, sweet bourbon any day.” The bartender set the glass in front of the black-clad man.
    The man in the black suit picked up the cup, swirled it, took a tiny sip, and poured the rest of it into the glass that the man in the grey suit was still holding slightly tilted. He righted it as it was filled to the brim. The grey-clad man took a sip, as the black-clad man stared at the bartender’s cuffs. Only a nearly imperceptible raising of the eyebrow indicated that the bartender had noticed what happened.
    Three minutes before closing time, the two men at the bar both turned to watch a man in a brown suit enter. The bartender set an empty glass and a bottle of beer on the counter and withdrew to the backroom. As the black-clad man filled the glass with beer, the grey-clad man gestured toward the stool over which the overcoat was draped. The brown-clad man sat down and took a sip of the beer that was proffered to him. The black-clad man got up as the grey-clad man and the brown-clad man faced each other.
    “Do you have my reward?” the brown-clad man asked. The black-clad man reached into his black jacket.
    “Yes,” the grey-clad man said. The black-clad man fixed his gaze on the brown jacket in front of him.
    “Where is it?” the brown-clad man asked. The black-clad man smiled.
    “Here,” said the black-clad man. There was a click.
    Two minutes before closing time, the man in the grey suit pushed the body of the man in the brown suit backwards off the stool so that it landed sprawling on the floor, the overcoat of the man in the black suit cushioning the rough floor and saving it from the splatters of blood that were emitted from the torn and oozing brown fabric. The grey-clad man gripped the ankles of the corpse, while the black-clad man firmly supported its shoulders.
    Their shoes thumped heavily. The door-chime sounded. A car engine started, revved, and was gone.
    One minute before closing time, the bartender sighed as he came out of the backroom and looked around the bar. One glass that was almost empty and two that were almost full sat guiltily on display. He took the glasses and dumped them in the sink, although not before he took a sip of the Scotch. When all was clean and tidy in the bar, he stepped outside and locked the door, giving the chime one last jangling tug.

T. G. 12/3/20

In Death Let Me Not Be Arrayed

In death let me not be arrayed

In flowers lovingly displayed,

Nor precious cloths of silk and gold,

Nor gems that earthly value hold.

But dress me all in purest white,

That you may know I walk in light;

And lend me one strand of your hair,

That you may know I'll meet you there.

T. G. 11/22/20

Feast of Christ the King

Approach of the Night; Break of Day

Approach of the Night
(To those who are certain it is coming)

Now the light is sinking fast.
We cling to hope that it will last;
For if it fades, all things are o'er,
But if it stays, I die no more.

Now the light is almost gone.
We fear the night and hope for dawn.
We, silent, hide from all the fray,
And, blind, we shiver and decay.

Now the light is gone, below
The earth, and all we had will go.
The whirling night's a mad maelstrom.
This is the time to say, "Salaam!"

T. G. 12/14/14

Break of Day
(To those who know that day follow night)

The Dark is all around us now.
We still have hope, I know not how.
The dawn will come, we know it well.

We will escape this ghastly hell.

The sudden light, though just a line,

Tells us, "Everything will be fine."

We wait for daybreak, and for light.

Gone will be soon the dark of night.

The burst of day, the rising dawn!

The dark that filled the world is gone.

But those whose hearts were in despair

Only sufferings now must bear.

T. G. 12/14/14

Hey! Heat the High Sky's Eye Sends Streaming

Hey! Heat the high sky’s eye sends streaming;

Scattering, dispelling shivers. Sweat

Pours from pores, pooling, making wet

Rivulets run down my skin glass-gleaming.

The bees ‘neath roots of trees stay, from the steaming

Heat to hide, so light-glare not to let

Roast, boil, toast, broil their colony, their set

Of gold-set jets, of golden honey dreaming.

Behold! Behind the beehive tree, the green

Shade shelters from the shimmering sheen

Of Phœbus’ fire the pool, quite cool, quite clean.

Come, cast away all care! Let us equip

Ourselves to swim; our steaming stockings strip,

As well as shoes and shirt, and take a dip.

T. G.