Chalk Dust

Chalk dust

on the fingertips of the teacher

on the clothes of the detective’s wife

on the mind of the detective

on her clothes and he knows it

on her body and he knows why

 

Hands

in the air as the teacher pleads for his life

in a pair of gloves, clutching the Colt .45 

in her hair as she looses a scream more like a death rattle

in a calculated fury as he squeezes the trigger like a sniper

in a pool of the teacher’s blood

 

Death

under the dirty lights of Chicago at night

under the suspicions of a breaking marriage

under her sobbing body as she cradles her lover

under duress, begging the detective to finish it

under the ground as three more bodies feed the starving earth

 

Chalk dust 

on my fingers as I write

in white apology on the board that “I will not read Private Eye Magazine

under my desk.”