Whodunit? I done it. Gone and grabbed

the last slice of peach pie. It lingered

long in my lungs. It hummed and I 

hummed, the villain of a million sins,

this one being the worst one. Sunday sinner

after dinner. Professor Plum in the kitchen

with the knife. I know you hoped I choked,

blocked my windpipe or had a stroke,

something sly or simple to whisk me

to the side so I wouldn’t slide deftly

into the night with my lugubrious tongue

while you with the rope by light

of the candlestick cut the darkness

after your affair with Mr. Green

in the ballroom. Scandalous, yes it was,

you sliced into the kitchen saying you

were only on a pie errand for the colonel.

The colonel—that mish-mash mustard

with the revolver was snoring in the study.

Nose-out that notion, Miss Scarlet,

you dessert harlot. I’m not fooled.

Get a clue.