Is In The Details
A neighbor reported that a woman had been yelling
For four hours on Blank Avenue, he did not know
If there was anyone else at the residence.
He could not see the last two months nor did
He pretend to have remorse over his actions.
The police shook their heads and then nodded,
Perused the array of dead plants on the porch,
Her disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes,
The witnesses parted curtains and sighed,
It was eight pm on the Ivory Coast,
Contaminants swirled in the air
But this was not pertinent nor did it indicate
The launch of a new investigation.
He whispered into the mouthpiece,
“Do you see how God has punished you?”
From his seat on the airport bus driving
Through the streets of Montserrado County
The day after a body was left until a quarter to four,
The viral count spewing itself onto the ground
Outside the luxury goods store beside someone’s
Next whore just before the curfew.
No, the neighbor reported he did not know
If anyone else was at the residence,
He could not see the torn clothes
In the bag at the back of the garage,
Could not see the last shard of glass
From an old portrait of boys that had hung
On her wall, he could not reach the bless-ed
Fragments of the wallet sized photo
Or the stack of boarding passes and business cards.
The good cop bad cop routine lasted a half an hour,
Until one of them spoke into his lapel,
The listener and speaker following the unwritten code,
“Aren’t you the mayor’s sister?” he asked,
Or weren’t you the one we caught behind the hedge
In the park? Why
haven’t you changed your address
With the DMV? The
cops evaluated sobriety as they
Perched their left hands on the holsters.
Luckily, this was not reported.
The devil wept in the back bedroom,
Looked solemnly at piles of documentation
Unable to decipher one last signature
Unable to sample the DNA or hear
The hand as it witnessed to the foot.
