Death of a Therapist
Sitting in a black chair
After a heavy drink
Hanging from a light fitting
Face down on the floor
Who killed the therapist?
Nobody is sure
That night she left the latch off
The back door
There was a twitchy curtain at number 24
A psychotic son aged 21 and on the run
The cops are looking for
Was it in the dish she ate at exactly a quarter past eight
Every night
She had turned an awful shade of green a ghastly sight!
Or was it in the glass of burgundy she liked to drink at nine
Did someone tamper with her chicken kievs?
Did someone spike her wine?
Or did she simply DIE?
YES DIE Lie DEAD as a dodo for hours on the floor?
No flowers, no wild applauses
Just behind the door
The coroner had a twitch when he said 'Natural causes'
But still they're looking for
[...] Read more
poem by Yvette Smith
Added by Poetry Lover
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