When a detective falls in love, he does not know who to bill for expenses--
everything is up in the air.

At a mixer for suspects, he invites me to dance via loudspeaker.
Radiant in my white dress, I resemble a snowy owl
even down to my carefully bandaged hand which he takes without hesitation.
I whisper in his ear:

I am Leon Czolgosz.
Your heart is the President of the United States of America.
We are dancing in Buffalo, city by the Niagara.
My detective, of course, falls hard.

The next time we meet, I wait for him in the bullpen at the police station.
They know him there.
They hire cellists.
He confesses his deepest fantasy to me:

I want to speak words of love to you
via telephone
with our hands naked and separated only by the safety glass.
I want the call recorded
and broadcast to wild lovers around the globe.

Shortly after, we are married. I wear my favorite bearskin robe.
My small black cubs frolic nearby,
climbing the pews and then tumbling gaily down again.
My detective is resplendent in his tuxedo.
The hired band plays Funiculi Funicula.
I snarl when my detective gets too close to the cubs, and this inflames him.

At last, we lie in bed together, like busy machines come to rest.
I am wearing nothing but the revolver-shaped earrings he has given me.
My detective wears a felt fedora
and a look of smug adoration like a daredevil over the falls in a barrel.
I am The Queen of the Mist,
suspected in various thieveries, check kiting, and jaywalking.

Our love is an aviary
where birds wheel above the thundering water like intelligent confetti.
Look in your mailbox, I tell my detective.
I have left you a valentine and an Easter egg.
He asks if, after all, I am his mystery client.
I enter a plea of innocent.
My love is happy now, laughing.

Spurious correlation is when two random variables line up,
Such as shark attacks increasing with the amount of ice pops sold,
Unfortunately for health nuts, ice pops don't cause shark attacks.
But what is truly spuriously correlated is this bullet board,
That I am using to unravel the secrets of writing today.
Such as the number 122 lining up with severely different artists,
As well as well defined writers turning into many missing cases.
If I was ever offered a job as official poet detective,
Of course I would take it, but I would run circles each day.

He finds the clues
come to him like fireflies
swarming around him
in the air

murderers all have
long shadows
& some were born
with silver spoons

in their mouths
& others not
He assembles collages
of cases from newspapers

to see which ones
remind him of which
& drinks too much
as the night holds him close.

He's got a Dame in town
he knows she's bad news
He knows his whole life is
a case of Win or Lose

A card trick
played by a blind man
he has too many regrets
& yet none at all

An ecosystem found upon
An outer crust of dust
Inside abode without a lawn
With tenant taming rust.

Sitting stagnant, songs of stellar
Sing sublime lines
Through minds that remain in cellar,
Never seeing the pines.

Many stagnant years have passed,
Detectives overdue,
The body brought them all aghast,
The stench, the dust, and view.

An ecosystem found upon
An outer crust of dust
Inside abode without a lawn
With tenant taming rust.