Monday, July 09, 2007

450. Colonel Mustard Between Games - Kathleen Flenniken

I find my bench in the conservatory,
nurse a scotch and this throbbing headache

and contemplate my id. I'd like to get my hands
on that wee revolver, the tiny gold wrench,

I can almost feel the knife between by fingertips.
When I'm idle I'm just a cartoon of a man,

a loser with a handlebar moustache.
I'm no smarter that Miss Scarlet in her

tawdry side-slit dress or Mr. Green,
the regrettable car salesman. These interludes

undo me. But roll the dice and everybody stares
when I enter a room––they write my name

on their detective pads. Motive, desire––
I've got it all in spades. But have I acted?

That's the hell and hardest part of this game––
the heart stays sealed, it capacities a mystery.

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