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My parents always taught me not to lie, saying it would get me in trouble. I guess it didn't take. Here I am, retired from honest work, spending my time making up stories. I've yet to see how much trouble they'll cause.

Noir Crossed Lovers by J. R. Chabot

A hardboiled P.I. sat slumped at the bar,

Downing straight shots in a black mood of noir,

Drinking alone, in no mood to be crossed,

Thinking of Rosie, the doll he had lost.

Rosie the innocent, Rosie the pure,

Joyful, light-hearted, sprightly, demure.

He loved her – he knew it – but had to stay free.

As he said to the barman, “It just couldn’t be.

She’s a great little broad, and I’ll always love Rosie,

But my God, don’t you see, she made me feel … cozy.”