On the page she strides boldly
through gore, spattered, flung
arms dramatic, brain sharpishly screwed on.
No suspect is spared, no plotline too raw,
she ventures where others gasp, look away.
And she knows at least sixty ways
to dispose of a lover.
Yet the glimpse of a needle
makes her gibber to nurses.
She watches crime on TV through
chinked fingers and wine,
she dithers at shadows, jumps at
rustles in the road. A floorboard
creaking in the night sends her diving.
Scurry, scurry, little paws,
the horror of that nib on paper!
findingtimetowrite 