Philip Marlowe, Retired by Sean Woodard

Tossing his Royal Stetson
on the opposite chair,

Marlowe seats himself at a table
with a view out the window.

Pretty, he thinks, glancing at Idyllwild
pines and incense cedars.

Better than muggy LA streets
and smog that’d choke a seagull.

A waiter lays a cup and saucer
before him. Marlowe sneaks a pint

of Four Roses from his overcoat
and pours some in the steaming coffee.

He takes a drink, holds it in his mouth
before swallowing, sighs with satisfaction.

Fishing out a crumpled Camels carton,
he slips a cigarette between his lips.

As he strikes a match, the shadow
of a figure hovers over him.

“Philip Marlowe?” He extinguishes
the match with a flick of the wrist,

blows smoke in the inquirer’s face.
“Beat it. I’m enjoying my coffee.”

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