Poetry / Does your toe tag reveal the state of your legs?
Does your toe tag reveal the state of your legs?
Blood swept down the sidewalk
and puddles in the cracks
like melted hard candy on a hot summer’s day.
Ants marched in straight lines about her
matted blond locks.
The coroner brushed the dirt from the sundress
after the snap shots were taken.
The yellow tape said Crime Scene
although Detective Greene found little evidence
of a crime
No eyewitnesses
No odd fingerprints
No foreign DNA under her nails
Beautiful women don’t fall from space
not since Barbara Ella
Finding only locked doors and empty balconies,
he confesses to himself that he is clueless.
Like cards hidden in a child’s game
he had begun to guess
Ms Scarlett
did it to herself
behind closed doors
with a broken heart
while soft jazz music played in the background.
Kneeling beside her, watching the dance of the crime scene
investigators
he pictures her last moments
Champagne, followed by lipstick and blush,
removed only by tears.
In a moment of lost thought he had found her ankle
with his hand and was not working his way up to her thigh,
remarking all along to himself about the smoothness of her leg.
With a sudden jerk, he had returned to the scene.
Andy, the coroner, hadn’t seen a thing, but did feel the victim was
dressed remarkably well for a probably suicide.
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Does Your Toe Tag Reveal the State of Your Legs?
Blood swept down the sidewalk
and puddled in the cracks
like melted hard candy in July.
Ants marched in straight lines
around matted, blond locks. The coroner
brushed the dirt from her sundress
after the snap shots were taken.
The yellow tape read Crime Scene
but Detective Greene found
little evidence of a crime—
no eyewitnesses,
no odd fingerprints,
no foreign DNA under her nails.
Beautiful women don’t fall from space,
not since Barbara Ella.
Finding only locked doors and empty balconies,
he confesses to himself that he is clueless.
Like cards hidden in a child’s game
he just guessed
Ms Scarlett
did it to herself
behind closed doors
with a broken heart
while soft jazz music
played in the background.
Kneeling beside her, watching the dance
of the crime scene investigators
he pictures her last moments—
champagne glasses stained with lipstick,
rouge left open on the counter top,
cigarette angled neatly from a potted plant.
Lost in a moment of thought,
he finds her ankle with his hand,
working his way up to her thigh,
noticing the smoothness of her leg.
With a sudden jerk, he returns to the scene.
Andy, the coroner, saw nothing,
but did feel the woman
dressed remarkably well for a murder victim.
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