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Herbie's Night is Over


Rusty Broadspear

Frantic muticoloured streamers rode the violent evening winds,
From branches of trees, tumbled garden furniture, Emma's raised hand.
Lazy snail trails of murky smoke wound upwards from the barbeque,
Emma's dress giggled, fluttered, displaying thighs - not planned.

And Herbie Richstenstein, chemist, host, carried his flute of champers
To a table near Emma, placed a chair upright, reached down, touched her hand, smiled.
Garden candles extinguished, mission complete, works in the open, proven.
His man appeared, stepping lightly over fallen guests, Herbie stroked his wifechild.

Herbie Richstenstein worked for a conglomerate but worked on his own.
Stooped, white haired and always focused on chemical destruction as a skill,
Sipped his champers, winked at his man, stroked the hand of his wifechild.
Emma lay stiff, clothing fluttered, birds remained silent, Herbie's man stood still.

"So," Herbie smirked. "Total result, 30 yard radius. What more can you want?"
The man sidled, looked down at Emma, then at Herbie, then walked away.
Herbie slung his glass, chased his man, shouting, "THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED!!"
His man's face turned, dampened with tears and with eyes of dejected dismay.

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