Death in the Afternoon (Poetry)

Her cheap Sekonda stopped at 4.15 -
glass cracked against the door frame as she fell,
her skull split and she dropped without a scream -
an instant death, as far as one could tell.

Tidy, too - no blood or gory mess
to traumatize the first upon the scene -
her marble face shows nothing of distress,
the place as neat as it had ever been.

Old chairs sit mute - refuse to offer clues;
her polished table set in a glazed calm;
the tea things waiting - still the Assam brews
beneath its cosy squares of crocheted charm.

Thin china gleams, spoons wink their silver plate
knowingly - smug witnesses who saw
the hand that clubbed her, planned a callous fate
for one who’d seemed genteelly dull before.

The scene’s fixed sharp in photos, but the crime
remains unsolved - no motive and no trace
of fingerprints or fibres - not a sign -
no suspect, hence no way to close the case.

And she, who meets her death soon after 4
each year on that December afternoon,
relives her part - plays innocent once more -
while doubt still heckles, haunts the rented room.