The Sad Tale of Suzy Yen

by Johnny Strike

                                                                     art by Drew Roulette

Sparse weeds swaying in the wind,
Gentle Asian dancers,
Who are not faraway but rather in a theater,
On a stage...
All glitz and gold,
Fantastic made-up faces,
Large, slow raindrops, wet streets,
Red and yellow banners,
Flapping in another breeze,
A walk through Chinatown.

“The Mouth” they call him,
A crooked private eye, enters Red's,
leans on a bar top,
He has false teeth, sagging bluish eyes,
He clicks his teeth after ordering,
Eyes are watery, pools of regret,
He sucks in a bit of stale air,
He speaks to the Chinese bartender,
“Just whose facts are we talking about here?”

“Suzy Yen. She work theater next door.”
The light rain becomes a downpour,
“The Mouth” finishes his drink,
slaps down a few damp bills.
The bottom one is a hundred.

In the dressing room the dancer approaches him,
for an embrace.
He stabs her in the heart.
Chinese folk music squeaks from a cheap radio.
Suzy Yen takes in a final breath of air.
“The Mouth” goes out the back way,
Red and yellow banners flap above
a few greasy garbage bins.

Rest In Peace

Johnny Strike

June 6, 1948 – September 10, 2018



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