Thriller (Poetry)

You’re here again — it’s really no surprise
to see you hunched and reading in your chair
engrossed — the room a vault of coughs and sighs
arising from that volume open there.

You didn’t get to finish it and so
I saved your place, the final chapter marked
anticipating you’d be loathe to go —
left suddenly in that suspense-filled dark

still wondering who did it. Hopeful, too
completion might release a fretful mind —
you worry shadows, looking for some clue
and hanging on — desperate to find

answers — a denouement that explains
the whys and wherefores. Then, once all is clear
and understood, that expectation wanes...
a few more pages now — the end is near.

I look away, then back — the cushion’s dent
proof that you were here — although I dozed
I’m sure I saw you reading, head low-bent —
your chair’s now empty and the book is closed.