What if it’s all there
to know, and I never saw it.
That’s what keeps me returning
to this thriller, serial killers,
a man without a footnote
yet keen enough
to bend down and pick up
some semi-lit, discarded
mystery brand of cigarette;
he knew it was crucial.
Or is it a woman
who’s central parked
on the edge of suspicion,
lipstick a shade too red
for her innocent smile.
She smears over mirrors of doubt
with the words, “I told you so.”
With twists hand pocketed
they cross over in the street,
pass in parallel plots,
and reminisce about the villains
who have deep white scars
down their ripped, paperback spines;
soon they’ll have no wear left
to hide their own deeds inside,
and no night either.
