MURDER IS MY MUSIC

The airport is being watched,
consider the harbor frozen solid,
no refugees slip through the cracks,
railroad tracks hum your song off key

Two men wearing trench coats
driving two dark sedans
triangulate your breat
whenever you stop to rest.

They follow their dogs,
their dogs smell your shadow
where it folds up a wall
like an old paper doll.

The roses you forgot to kill
twist toward the new moon,
a tangle of thorny mistakes,
evidence linking you to me.

For a small bribe, perhaps
a black rhinestone necklace
or the contents of a piano bench,
you’ll turn your coat inside out.

©Bob Rixon