Written for The Sunday Whirl, Wordle #186

words:  shine, owl, suicide, rose, crosswords, night, birds, thorns, mud, fervor, thread, crocus

Voices rose many a night. Neighbors said
cross words were batted about back and forth
like a tennis ball. The boyfriend swore
fervently, that he was innocent. Hard
to prove he wasn’t without a shred
of evidence, only the body, a spill
of colored pills, and a nearly empty
glass of Vodka. The poison lingering
on the rim of the glass was never found.
No one could remember seeing him leave
or enter the apartment that day. Heavy
rains and resultant mud would have washed
away footprints, had there been any.
It was a thorn in the sides of the police,
who felt there was something off
about this guy. Detectives wondered
why he did not seem as dejected
as he might have, having just lost
his girlfriend.

By Spring, the sun shone down
on deformed looking first blooms
of crocus in front of the apartment
building. The suspect bided
his time, continuing to reside
in the same apartment, to the disgust
of his neighbors. The loose threads
of the case remained untied.

Eventually, her death was ruled
a suicide. Only the yellow bird
in his cage, and the sage old owl
on the branch outside the window,
knew the truth.


About purplepeninportland

I am a freelance poet, born and bred in Brooklyn, New York. I live with my husband, John, and two charming rescue dogs–Marion Miller and Murphy. We spent eight lovely years in Portland, OR, but are now back in New York. My goal is to create and share poetry with others who write, or simply enjoy reading poetry. I hope to touch a nerve in you, and feel your sparks as well.
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