That’s The House
That’s the house where the Dean died
It was on his front porch which
I can see from the side of my yard
Gunshot supposedly suicide
Not to make it a whodunnit since
It’s not what poems are for
Though it’s fine to write about war
Drowning and to be or not to be
But it could have been the wife
She hated him and was also
A good shot I happened to notice
From her tennis court target practice
When I walk the dog at night I go
Counterclockwise so as not
To see the site where he or
She did the deed so cleanly
Sometimes I run into her
At the supermarket and wonder over
The avocados if she remembers
Telling me her husband sucked
It was a laughing thing likely
She thought it was funny
But he was my boss and it
Was really weird and witchy
The next day she ran the sprinkler
I could not see the blood flow
From the steps or stain the grass
But I can picture it pretty clearly
There was no proper inquest
What with the note she claimed he left
I do know she forged a Christmas
Letter he definitely didn’t write me
If there is evidence then I don’t
Want to see it while my dog pees
He never poops in that part of
The property so it’s a urine thing
In a murder mystery it is not a mystery
Because you find out who did it
In real life the mystery is you
How you live in it and who didn’t
–Ticky Kennedy
Reclusive Poet in Residence
SchoolNewsToday.com
NOTE
In the US nearly half of murders go unsolved. “Unsolved Murder Rate in U.S. At Historic High in ‘Backlogged’ System,” National Criminal Justice Association.
Also Read: Jane Austen’s Brother: Friday Poem
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