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Murder Mystery
It was getting more difficult for us to remember
what we were looking for.
Some neighbors had gone, south maybe,
leaving a big hole in the driveway
for those who might notice anything.
The new people had come to town.
It was their house now, and filled
with all the latest furnishings,
the colorful lamps slanted
in an interesting kind of way.
The book had come missing the first page.
It had bothered us for weeks.
Plot took precedence over everything, made room
for the black and twisted branches of the trees,
an interlude of smiling girls at the door
selling candy.
Somehow, we thought later,
it was like everything was leading up to something,
the "it" part of it,
wind whispering around walls,
the unexplainable sounds,
a door blown open in the middle of the morning.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
It was true though. Too quiet, I thought,
for anything really to get lost.
For those of us who were there later,
waiting in the flashing lights,
it seemed like something had been there
trying to get our attention all of the time,
a story better revealed
in the empty collars and shirtsleeves
of the undisturbed rooms,
a body moving through empty space,
the missing page with everything explained
screwed inside a table leg.
What we missed, we realized later on,
was the texture of things,
the sheen of old hardwoods,
the funny old wallpaper and old family photos
with everyone out of doors.
Pictures of a heartier time! A sort of gauze
covering over everything, unfurled
into the park-like
wilder areas no one ever visited,
but serving a purpose all the same,
at the end of a street,
near the parked cars,
sending out the creeping vines
into the abandoned orchards,
through the drafty rooms.
--Stephen Ellis
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