the day after a murder

He stands in line for his shirt to dry
Sporting a hangover’s distinctive stench.
When the man behind drops a coin and whines
The man buttons the shirt, fists strongly clenched
It’s about this time that they begin to ring-
The reverberations of the night’s whisky splurge.
And try as he might, he can’t link
The pit in his gut to its causal words
Looking at the clock, he’s late for work
Steps on the bus while his stomach hurts.
And on the ride he recalls those verbs
Whose memory it pains to affirm:
There was “jerk,” “flirt,” “ha!,” and “turd”
But none he saw as that vital word.
And then he felt his heart grow weak
As he heard the driver so plainly speak,
“You hear of the man coming home from work,
And when he met some drunken jerks?
They saw him park his SUV
And then, oh, I can’t believe!
They beat him good, stole the car
Drove down the road not very far.
Here’s the kicker, the victim himself,
Though of fame and enormous wealth,
Died and was booked as John Doe.
Without a family, all alone,
Devoid of friends, or anyone
To quickly admit, ‘I know this fellow.’”
The man on the bus now knew the verb
Rhymes with “herder”… yes, its “murder.”
But then he leans back his back, relaxed,
His stomach now settled, jaws unlatched,
And he smiles at a lovely prospect:
A murderer but not a suspect.

Hey, there! ^_^ Welcome to YWS~ I'm Hannah. It's nice to meet you. C:

Anyways, let us get down to it, shall we?

The story you've woven here is really beautiful in some parts, there is no doubt about that, but it's clouded in many places by the rhyme scheme you've forced it into. Many of the rhymes here are forced, which is not good. A teacher of mine once said that writers must strive to create the perfect drywall -- the writing must be smooths and without bumps that reveal the presence of the author. Forced rhymes remind the reader that someone wrote this piece and that they were obligated to find a word that rhymed to fit in the poem. That's not great! That's rough drywall -- not what you want.

I'd definitely consider rewriting this poem in freeverse, so that you can weave this beautiful story you've begun without worrying about the conventions.

I also noticed that the beginning was far more convoluted and beautiful than the end was. Though it was confusing, I could see that there was effort to weave the words in, which was good. Try clearing up the events at the beginning -- I think that will be easier in freeverse as well.

Let me know if you have any questions. This has great potential and I hope you take my advice to heart. ^_^

-Hannah-

Revised, free verse. First time I have ever tried this form of poetry. I was pretty confused, but I'll make it through this tumultuous beginning... like a rookie takes the plate in a ninth world series inning, I'm grinning 'cause I'm getting pudding in the early morning, in finishing this rhyme, I advise to take your time, let your mind find the blind to rewind to the time that the sun don't shine. here's the poem... any ideas for a title?

He stands in line for his shirt to dry,
sporting a hangover and its distinctive stench.
When the old man behind drops a coin,
Our man trembles, and with vigor he buttons his shirt,
Hands clenched so tight
He can only button three.
It’s about this time that he hears the rings-
Reverberations of a drunken forenight,
Memories of forgotten misadventures
of he and his fellow misanthropes.
Yet try as he might, he can’t recall
Why the pit in his gut had grown as though he had lied to a saint-
perhaps Saint Jude.
Looking at the clock, he’s late for work,
Steps on the bus, his stomach’s ablaze.
And on the ride he tries to recall
The memory just out of his reach.
There’s a foggy recollection of
A noun, he knew, sounding like,
“jerk,” “flirt,” “lure” and “turd.”
None relieved his curious pain.
And then he felt his heart grow weak,
His feet sweat,
His face bombarded
by a hot rush of blood,
When the bus driver recalled the morning paper,
“You hear of the man coming home from work,
And when he met some drunk hooligans?
They saw him park his car at night
And then, oh, I can’t believe!
They beat him good and stole the car
The man did not live long-
How painful those last breaths must have been!
But here’s the kicker,
The victim was famous as clocks on a wall,
Of fame and enormous wealth,
Who last night, lonely as a wretch,
Was certified ‘dead’ as Mr. John Doe
“No family?” shouted
The passenger to the right,
who was shocked to hear
of such a pitiful recluse that recently died.
The driver’s reply was
Far from sympathetic,
“To promptly admit, ‘I know this fellow’
No one showed, and he was left
Alone
Until a young intern of sixteen years
Fell to the ground crying when she found
Her hero singer-songwriter
Stone cold on an aluminum bench.”
Our man on the bus now knew the word
that his heart and stomach had ached for.
Rhymes with “Werther,” one step further,
whose sorrows end in… Murder!
The word, when pronounced in thought
by a cleaner mind than his,
Would perhaps refuse to embrace the thrill
Of the lovely prospect of a fight to the death,
Even if it was a mismatch
And so our man leans back in relaxed meditation,
His stomach now settled,
His fists no longer tight,
His heart at peace
He smiles and laughs at
What he did for what he did it
And revels in the self-earned right
To call himself a murderer,
But not yet a suspect.