Trish Hopkinson

“How d’ya like them apples?”

Barber’s pole haircuts for the soda jerk.
The whisk brush, hair tonic, and aftershave
next to the ash tray’s curling smoke and leather chair.
“OK, boys, which of you gets the privilege?”
A stranger, black-suited figure with a cigar trimmer.
“…These’re Havanas. Romeo and Juliets. Private stock.”

Footsteps. Hotel entrance.
Clattering dishes and uncomfortable suit,
the piano sonatas, the dance floor to the stairwell.
Frilly apron, nylon stockings, make-up.
“…What kind of man *are* you?”
Room Service. A bottle of bonded whiskey, a water glass,
and a double-bladed knife.
“You’re out of line, mister.”
Perfume atomizer shattered.
“Way out of line.”

Passenger seat: “How d’ya like them apples?”
Stopwatch: “…What a knucklehead.”
Cigarette: “The sonofabitch. The blackmailer.”

The Man Who Wasn’t There script by Joel Coen and Ethan Coen.

Trish Hopkinson has always loved words—in fact, her mother tells everyone she was born with a pen in her hand. She has been published in several anthologies and journals, including The Found Poetry Review, Chagrin River Review, and Reconnaissance Magazine. You can follow her poetry adventures at


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