Philip Marlowe

He was alone and lonely.
Sadness swept his eyes 
before he jabbed at me 
with his cynical sarcasm.

He slowly lit his Camel.	
It was a simple act of murder
and he was a scholar of sorts –
a player of chess, a fan of poetry.

I knew I was under his scrutiny.
I agree it looked rather suspicious.
After all, the body was there
and I was found holding the knife.

I squirmed under his hard eye
but leaned back into the chair
in front of his desk knowing
he had a soft spot for women.

A hard drinker, he took a bottle
from his cabinet and offered
a glass to me. I didn’t accept
as I knew I should stay alert.

“It was a man, a squabby man,
with a glimmer of glee in his eye,”
I said. “He looked at me, then
threw down the knife and ran.”

Marlowe said, “I don’t think you did it.
There was no blood on your clothes.
Your shoes would have soaked
in the blood and crusted.”

I relaxed a little and offered a smile.
I knew I was home free.
I was glad I had changed my shoes.
“I’ll take that drink now.”

	She took the bait…


Inspired by but not entered in Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest

confidencedeathmurdermysterysensesfree verse

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