It wasn’t me,
so I kept pleading
not only to the suspicious uniformed figures
impatient and wide
in front of my only means of escape,
but to my still scuffed and blood stained self.
The steel hearted butcher blade
appeared fairly realistic and believable
discarded on the hard wood floor,
and the ocean of rosy glazed blood
accompanying it seems to match the scene drawn out
in my now deceased neighbor’s house.
The murder weapon strewn across the floor,
the body torn vicious and bloody in its own house,
my bloody and violent appearance
with the full audience of two curious officers.
I now wonder if it was me,
could it be, is it.
Oh well even if it isn’t
these cops could really complicate things
if they decide to take me in,
good thing I keep a spare blade hidden in my sleeve.