30:30 2014, Day 8

True Crime

When you return from the donut store

the famous detective is in your chair

drinking brown liquor and humming

a radio jingle for a used car lot. He knows

about the pens, the  day-glo flocks

of post-its, the garland of paperclips

in your mistress' hair. Knows but says

nothing, because you have left him

nothing to say, evidence blurred

like a first crush seen through

a wedding veil. If you had ambition

you would write a symphony

of transgression that fiction

would blush at. Rival minds would

stagger like ballerinas stunned

by a flash grenade. All you do

is smirk and stuff your mouth

with cinnamon.