On my wrist, a murder mystery clue:
Watch stopped at seventeen minutes past two.
The spirit of this moment escapes through broken lens,
while its corpse keeps sticking where the ticking ends.
Evidence of circumstance and time
in the final act of a drama of unsolved crime.
No suspects assemble in a drawing room
where beeswax glows in the Victorian gloom.
No recounting of motive and opportunity
by a mannered detective speaking with impunity.
No last minute confession wrung from guilty heart
which any decent lawyer could soon tear apart.
The body in the library starts to snore
as I make my getaway via secret door.
