Whodunnit
He’d flumed out of his liquid diet.
Shards on a dead man’s floor.
The book must be thrown at him.
The book falls on his fail-safe head.
The pages burn with recompense.
The pages could of…should have…
indeed did make him green -
at first with envy then around the gills.
He held a beauty in his hands
and the fame. They were captivated
by the change. Better than his past charges.
He’d let his spouse slip through the cracks
as he’d leapt to the ledge, across the way.
He was on stilts, on a catapult, on a high wire.
Things have now gone haywire. His fingers
slipping underneath the window. Why’d
he let his eyes lust after nouns, adjectives and verbs.
How absurd that his friends would get it so wrong.
Names can be swapped in the chaos.
He wasn’t dead. He was comatose.
He was his friend, once -
a friend who’d let no one read his manuscript.
Now it’s read by everyone.
The imposter might leap to the street
if the author clears his throat, opens his eyes.
Bile’s now his liquid diet. The suspense
almost over…the whodunnit solved.
5/29/2023
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