Bill sits and smokes and looks
At the young guy sitting
Beside him who’s scanning
Through a book on Robert
Kennedy. Bobby must
Have guessed they’d get him in
The end, Bill says, putting
His hand on the young man’s
Arm. It was a matter
Of time, not if, Bill adds
As the young guy turns and
Gazes at him. You knew
Bobby Kennedy? Bill
Nods, sure, it was part of
My work, keeping tabs and
Looking out, getting up
Close, help make plans. Wasn’t
Some Palestinian
Immigrant the captured
Assassin? The young guy
Asks. Sirhan Sirhan was
There sure, but the hit came
From another, Bill says.
He pauses, takes a long
Drag on the cigarette,
Watches the young guy’s eyes,
Remembers the night’s fuck,
The kisses, the holds. Thought
He was alone gunman?
The guy says crossing
His legs, feeling Bill’s hand
Stoking his left thigh. Too
Risky, one hit man, Bill
Says, got to be at least
Two or more, got to make
Sure the hit goes through as
Planned. The young guy coughs and
Frowns. It was planned? Sure, it
Was fucking planned; you don’t
Think Bobby was led through
The darn kitchens of the
Ambassador Hotel
By some sudden whim do
You? You think that Sirhan
Sirhan and the other
Hit guys were waiting there
On the off chance, do you?
Of course it was planned, these
Things are. The young guy sits
With his mouth open as
Bill’s hand creeps down to his
Crotch. Never thought of that,
The young guy mutters, but
The history’s different.
Sure it is, Bill says, all
History’s bunk, written
For the masses, clears up
Loose ends, settles things out.
The young guy says no more.
Bill leans in close; kisses
The young guy’s now sealed lips.
Sealed, settled, silence, that’s
The way it all goes in
The end, Bill whispers as
He goes down on the guy,
It all fucks out in the
End, he breathes slowly,
Beneath a dull grey sky.
