Murder

our hotel card key was wrong.
the aging man sat in the chair
by the door with his dinner jacket draped
and his hair combed sharp
and a pre-meal cocktail beaming in his hand
while Hungarian Rhapsodies tore
the eyes out of the ghosts of preceding days.

he answered to my call youthful,
this was the room he was to meet to her
and she would be along soon.
they would dine and stroll
and later marry and travel,
together inspire art and be inspired by it.
so much she had promised him already.



while easing the door closed, i stopped
seeing a tear form, glisten and fall,
and asked him how long he had been waiting.
Liszt-fire announced a turn in the symphonic poem.
the man sipped his drink, for he did not know.
was for the honor of her word he had waited,
so as not to tear it all apart or be ashamed.

bid him then farewell and when the door was shut
wiped my fingerprints clean from the knob.
when my lover asked me why, i perspired,
force swallowing a lump in my throat.
because, my love, this is a crime scene
that found us and we are running clear of it now.
what crime? she asked. what crime? i mocked.