Mystery Fiction

My mind is half a serving of scrambled eggs
left cold near some toast on a bill-piled table
each marked overdue like the books of
philosophy and mystery short fiction
having assumed precious real estate
beside the dust outline of a black
alarm clock now
smashed to utter ruin
on the recently rain-drenched
underbrush of coffee-stained
carpet, they
remain marked at
pages 402 and
15, respectively,
each 365 pages from
their last word while
another last word
hangs poised
in the musky morning
air of an open window
and an early rain like
tears preceding
sorrow like
burning a corpse:
fever should generally
precede fatality.