At the B and B
The mystery is that there is no mystery,
Says the retired detective
Tamping his pipe—
His father had lied to him
About honesty …
Otherwise, the room
Is sidetracked into seasonal detail,
Water dripping from eaves
Chipmunks begging for birdseed
After all these years, declares the hostess,
I'm afraid I still prefer Pissarro
Over Cezanne. She dabs
Her lips with a delicacy …
The howl of November approaches,
Dies back, twists wild roses
Along the stream bank
Such are the ravages of introspection,
She explains to the detective—
Someone had lied to her too
From Poetry Magazine, Volume 190, Number 3, June 2007. Used with permission.
Says the retired detective
Tamping his pipe—
His father had lied to him
About honesty …
Otherwise, the room
Is sidetracked into seasonal detail,
Water dripping from eaves
Chipmunks begging for birdseed
After all these years, declares the hostess,
I'm afraid I still prefer Pissarro
Over Cezanne. She dabs
Her lips with a delicacy …
The howl of November approaches,
Dies back, twists wild roses
Along the stream bank
Such are the ravages of introspection,
She explains to the detective—
Someone had lied to her too
From Poetry Magazine, Volume 190, Number 3, June 2007. Used with permission.
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