William S. Gainer		A Weekend in a Poem Noir   1959, September, a hot Friday afternoon. He’s late, she’s tired of waiting...   She’s sitting at the street side kitchen window, a glamour magazine, bottle of Johnnie Walker – Red, a tall glass – half empty, a Texaco gratuity ashtray – full and a tube of  that cherry-bomb red lipstick he likes so much – laying on the table in front of her, the noise of the city – calling...   Her note said, “My black dress, I’m wearing it, the shoes with the thin heels, silver, those too. The pearls you gave me for my birthday, you'll have to restring them, they're scattered on the bathroom floor, watch your step...   Don’t bother looking or waiting up, there’re places in this town even you don’t know. And if it’s a fight you want, I’m in a mood, you better tough-up – buddy..."   She rolled in late, or early depending on which side of the day you’re looking at – three-thirty, four in the morning. He didn't say a word, just whispered, "Missed you baby," held the covers for her. She climbed in purred, "Me too..."   They slept late, well into the day, him with those bothersome dreams, knowing not to ask.. Her with the smell of gin and gun oil on her fingers tips and that lump of pearl handled chrome under her pillow, knowing he wouldn't...   Later she'd cook breakfast. they'd drink beer with their eggs, talk about going to the beach on Sunday...		Never With Wishes   It appears the attorneys feel it is very import to know what to do when you’re done.   They sat up an appointment, called me in, asked the questions – it was a middle aged woman...   I told her I didn’t care. She insisted that people need to know what my wishes are; what to do with my remains, how to dispose of my assets.   I told her, “When I’m done, I’m done – it’s someone else’s problem.” She insisted, said I must have given it some thought. I said, “Maybe a little.” She said, “There you go, what is it?”   I told her – “Rather than using embalming fluid, I’d like them to load me up with gasoline, tell the guy running the crematorium to stand back when he throws the match.   I want to go off like a Roman Candle, shoot flames, pieces of flesh, hair, bone and eyeball 200 feet in the air.   I want the morning headlines to read, His Cremation Didn’t Go Well, but we’ll know the truth, you and me, won’t we?”   She clicked her ball-point, flipped the page on her yellow note-pad and with a blank stair said, “You gotta be kidding?”   I told her, “Never with wishes kid, never.”