Suspect

At the end of my fingers, all the homicides gather.
Det. Kalcium has a bum leg,
limps on the Egyptian ice.

He sniffs your panties, configures the newts
his wife makes him carry in his pocket,
gulps a question.

I echo his rag face, not much else
in the fruitbowl, clouds pass in and out
of the apples he appears to harness.

He’s a clever son of a bitch,
inspired by the holy Joes in his church no doubt.
The bastard puts Columbo to shame.

His techs tore the atoms from my computer,
but they’ve got no clue I’ve switched out hard drives.
Knives huddle in the kitchen to kiss,

I motion them to behave
their clever little wit. Later, I tell them: Beware,
Det. Kalcium’s never satisfied with satisfaction.