We say, “Good night,” but the night
incorporates nothing good.
The river exhales an opaque mist.
We both hear the splash of a corpse
tossed from the bridge. We return
to the spot on the pavement
where our alibis had lingered
not quite long enough. The stiff
may turn up so far downstream
no one will blame us for dashing
to the all-night diner to regroup.
The stainless well-lit space
hums to itself. Cops perch on stools
and chat up the waitress. Her face
is cloudy as a nebula. Smiles
droop from it like rusty sickles.
We order coffee and console
ourselves with knowable facts.
That splash may be innocent.
Maybe it was a buck deer leaping
into the river for a bath.
Maybe it was suicide
and therefore not our business.
But there was something absolute
about that splash, something creeping
through the mist to shiver us.
Only murder crawls so many
legged up the spine and haunts
bystanders with a lack of clues.
The squat cops gnawing burgers
are prepared to handle the dark side
of this village. But we know nothing,
except that the river’s very cold.
Was that your carcass or mine
tossed so casually into the dark?
Let whoever finds the victim
drifting downriver alert
whatever authority lingers
in this world of gray excuses.
The mist is so thick tonight
it erases all but the cruelest
moments, leaving minor dramas
to terminate well before dawn.
William's YouTube video reading of "Peterborough Murder Mystery":
Subscribe and turn on Notifications for Channel 52.
William confesses "I don't remember how this poem came about. There's an episode of Midsomer Murders in which someone is dumped off a bridge near the Badger Pub and splashes loudly and convincingly. And an evening walk in Peterborough in which my partner and I crossed the Main Street bridge and discussed whether it would be a good place to dispose of a body. And often when I visit the diner, cops are eating burgers. So some authentic elements But I'm not sure. Maybe from a dream."
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