• The Gloves Are Off

    I’m standing in the study.
    You don’t know why I’m here.
    The body is down the hallway.
    Squad cars are on the lawn.
    His blood is in the hamper.
    You don’t know why its there.
    You refuse to answer questions.
    Police ask anyway.
    You’re the murder suspect.
    You don’t know why you are.
    White gloves are stained crimson;
    Your size exactly.
    I look at you and smile.
    You know what it means.
    I bloodied your hands;
    With my misdeeds.