This is where the story ends: with the killer stopped
dead in his tracks by six silver trochees
and anapests galloping into the sunset,
nodding sympathetically to the attendant
who sweeps up discarded stubs from the aisles.
Maybe there was time for revisions, maybe not.
For, in the end, to fight over a comma or
a dash is to quibble indecently.
This, after all, is mostly what it comes down to.
And, either way, history’s thief is put to rest,
the troubled pizzicati brushed aside
by blaring horns and their shepherding tympani.
And the anecdotal baron, too, gives up his
ghost, retreating into the twinkle of
an eye on the back of a wondrous, stomping steed.
[Previous: The Season's Braille]
[Next: For Jay]