Mystery Story

I seem to be on trial for growing old.

I listen, horrified, through the hubbub

Of the choked courtroom, to morning traffic

In the street outside; someone is waiting

For me, and I grow impatient. Suddenly

During my cross-examination riot

Explodes in the chambers: chairs hurtling, voices

Crying out, glass shattering. But I sit

Composed in the witness-box repeating

My replies to the bored prosecutor,

Denying everything. Each question draws

An explanation or an alibi,

Yet each one contradicts an earlier one;

The jury throws tomatoes and grenades.

Somewhere along here I find myself awake;

No stains, no shrapnel, I shuffle in to shave.

Though actual traffic clogs the unseen streets,

No one is waiting, no one will frame the clues,

No one will leave a week-old newspaper

Folded around the code on a green bench

And stroll into a sudden cloud of pigeons.

I will drive down, thinking again of you,

Your deadly mastery of the surprise middle

That makes nonsense of the latter half of things,

And though nothing will actually explode

All day, nor any real questions be asked,

I will rehearse my perfect alibis,

As though we could perfect our lives and crimes.