And the old man still speaks, poem noir.

With all the city screaming, in the dark.

Buried away in the ghetto

A drab hotel room.

It was dim and muffled, with stale smoke.

The old man sat hunched up in the chair, at the old desk.

Banging on the keys, writing.

Crammed into a dirty corner.

Dirty from the years of people use.

The room had yellowed windows from decades of cigarettes, it was why he chose the room.

Smoke, vomit, whiskey, grey hair, groaning and complaining...

Banging on the keys, reporting well, all he knew.

And every time he signed it; "And the old man still speaks"

It was a deal he had made with Gad.

He was hiding like an old man, with small creature comfort and silence….and they were looking for him.

He figured when they found him that would fix his retirement.

There were books piled up by the cot with titles like "The Great Initiates" and "Thus Spake… this or that."

It was a deal he made with Gad.