I watch murder mysteries on
t.v.  There are so many to 
choose from. Some are even 
sweet, in their way. Many
require subtitles due to the 
accents. 

I save bugs from my class-
room, and here I am looking
at corpses. We all die, though. 
We’re all part of a storyline, full
of characters of sorts, picking
up mysteries here and there
as though they were chestnuts 
ready for baking or words to
a Christmas song. 

All our questions hide 
themselves in the sock 
drawer and make
themselves invisible in our 
daily lives, looking ordinary 
while whispering secrets just
out of reach of our ears. We 
like it that way. 

Mortality, our
insignificance, our importance,
diseases, hunger, poverty,
the sound of rain in the dining
room, all dress themselves in
everyday clothes so we pass
them by on the sidewalk, but
we watch the actors on t.v.
because we know we’re 
missing something.