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The Murderer

THE MURDERER

 

I take the murderer for coffee.

'Make sure you don't murder your coffee!'

I joke. He likes my jokes.

 

Later I swing a plank into his face:

BEAN

My two-year-old toe
curls like my mother’s
as I take the Autumn podium
of a patio stone.

The garden’s plush
with acorn-husks,
pears like dropped bells,
apples, bare-headed in the grass.