Making an Investigation
It's always the smallest of clues
that causes suspicion, the fuse
that sets off the fire, the two
wine glasses on the drainer, through
the familiar hall, into the bedroom
ghosting to his habitual doom -
but their tracks are hidden well,
no rumpled sheets, nothing to tell
they were here, so now a pause
before opening other doors...
wanting to leave, a burst of hope
dashed by the bathroom, the wet soap,
the damp bathmat, the scent she wore.
His shoes clump on the tiled floor,
a policeman too late to prevent
neither a crime, nor an accident.