Detective Drake gazed on the murder scene,
watching the crimson pool melt with the ice
and the snow-angel imprint left by Dean
when he collapsed after being stabbed twice.
“No murder weapon yet,” the deputy said,
“but his wife said he had plenty o’ enemies.”
Drake remarked, “Scarlet letters can be read,
but I’m not sure I want to read any of these.
“Dean was a man with a lot of free time,”
the Detective said, “especially for married women.”
Sighing, he added, “Too many suspects for this crime.”
He smiled as if he was sucking on a lemon.
On the porch sat Dean’s distraught wife,
crying as she was consoled by a local officer—
nearby, icicles were as sharp as a knife
and tears slid off of them as much as off of her.
Drake saw the ice gleam with the squad-car’s flash
and saw the same gleam in the eye of the widow,
both a furious red in time to a rhythmic slash
as the clouds overhead thickened with snow.
“Winter sure has a sharp ol’ set of fangs,”
the deputy said, staring at the ice-toothed house.
Drake ignored the icicles on the overhangs,
muttering to himself, “So does a jilted spouse.”