Casablanca Poem by jackilton peachum

CASABLANCA

Rick had said, 'We'll always have Paris.'
But would they?
What happened to Rick and Ilsa after the movie?
'One flight up—I live above a saloon, that's true.'
Bergman disappeared into the sky, Bogart and Captain Renault walked away in the fog, past the midgets, past the mock-up of the plane.
Rains was smiling, Bogie stopped to urinate. Hardly the best of friends.
There is always a vestige of the character that remains.
All theaters are haunted. Even old film-houses.
Somewhere in the flats of Rick's Place, Conrad Veidt leads a chorus of German singers,
Peter Lorre runs past them shrieking for his life.
Warners was waiting while Dooley fingered the keyboard. Senator McCarthy had already picked up the phone.
Betty Bacall looked lovely against the backdrop of Washington, the cherry trees, Capitol dome.
Lazlo wore a smug look, as though he knew he'd get the girl.
But he'd had her already,
'Were you lonely, Ilsa, while I was in that camp? '
What happened to the usual suspects?
In the afternoons, between directing episodes of
Beverly Hillbillies, or Gilligan's Island, Henreid would sit musing in his chair.
Did he think about Ilsa and that girl of Rick's at the The Blue Parrot?
And a voice out of the darkness, growly. 'It's almost daylight—can you start getting it now, Mr. Spade? '
But this was even before the war, before it got going. Before Enola Gay and the Bomb devastated the screen-world.
'The stuff dreams are made on—and covered in strawberries! '