Hotel Congress, Tuscon, Az.

they met in the lobby
sunk into that ancient leather couch
the one that envelops you
like the legendary hooker
with a heart of gold
they sipped their gin and tonics
as the round faced black and white TV
watched them hatch their plan

they reminisced about the old days
when the place caught fire
and Dillinger's boys were finally embraced
by the long arm of the law
lovingly transported
to that island in a cold, cold bay
and they solemnly agreed
they would not go down like that

up in the room they cleaned their guns
rehearsed their parts
over the steady thump from the club downstairs
where the terminally hip meet the unwashed
they pulled their resolve around them
like the robes of a zen monk
with a 12 gage begging bowl
and wished they could sleep

in the vicious morning sun
they made their way to the bank
through dusty desert streets
quiet as Dillinger's grave
masks and guns in place
they pondered the locked door
while the policeman behind them chuckled:
"You're not too good at this, are you?"

without hesitation they made their play
spinning into oblivion
there was no blaze of glory
as the shots rang out
in a shower of blood and dismay
their eyes met in recognition
of what had been forgotten
on a bright Sunday morning

Story ID:	4064
Written by:	John Stone (bio, contact, other stories)
Organization:	Loner
Story type:	Poem
Location:	Elverta Ca USA
Year:	2008