the detective doffs his hat,
observes the petrichor rich in the air –
the window’s left open, careless,
it rained last night, a real deluge,
someone tells him.
he slips into a state of accismus,
observes the patterns of the uxoricide
to which he was called and asked
to solve.
some overlord’s hand at work, he thinks,
builds a profile,
watches for someone to confect
their story.