Monday, May 3rd
Monday, May 3rd,
death was loud,
it was heard,
roaring like a crowd,
on Brooklyn’s streets,
so demanding,
the detective finds himself standing,
in a piss stench hallway,
it was going to be a start of a dreary day,
first,
her pants pulled down below her knees,
her hair covered in fleas,
there was no rape,
but she was covered partially,
by a dirty curtain that hung by the window
near the fire escape.
as she laid across the dirty floor,
the crime scene was secure,
no witnesses, no motive,
a fifty year old woman grabbed,
stabbed, and stabbed some more,
causing skin patches, jagged scratches,
fresh damage that was consistent
with the downward thrusts of a sharp edge,
the situation was strange,
because, it would seem,
she was also shot in the head at close range,
the detective slowly walked the crime scene,
pounding his fist,
and running through his mental list,
asking himself why was she dead,
you could almost hear the cards
turning inside his head,
she was found by a neighbor
who lived upstairs,
he said she had many male affairs,
but who cares,
she was a decent woman,
whose last breath,
ended in a meaningless death.
© 2011 Frank Atanacio