Known for Sure
They reported what was known for sure. Last seen on the veranda
of the new hotel wearing a wool suit that warmest day of June.
So, who saw him later that night, similarly suited, nailing something
to his own front door? (A late invoice, though no later than the others.)
Questions across the board. Like, who added in big red letters
that misquotation from The Rubaiyat the three detectives wasted
three days deciphering? Now they begun finding teeth, how
innocent is his dentist-wife? Who stood him that fateful gin while
he sat – where we are now – threatening, like a binbag, to spill all?
Can any of us say they never felt the silk of his suit lining? Who didn’t
know the width of his sleeve? Honestly. Yes, I offered the suitcase
he folded himself into. But who cut his throat for good measure?
Dane Holt’s poems have appeared in The White Review, Poetry Ireland Review, The Tangerine and HU.