The Murder In The Smile

We didn’t notice the murder beneath the smile,
like you notice it in one with a shabby suitcase
who struggles to use French lazily,
who ‘can’t see to read’ even when he wears his glasses
who smells like he’s been sleeping under the stars.

We let him come up behind us,
boo! The great game, the great deceit.
The life and soul of the party, flavour of the month,
that talented Mr. Ripley kind, everybody’s kind.
The scene was not the scene without him
smoking with the men, leaning in for the kiss.
Flattery, I believe, won over Mussolini.


Cracks
can show
from a tender trickle of water
overflowing from a bath
I also believe.

It cracked into a smile in the drawing room
we realized too late, blind man’s buff was over-
poor chap, we were all too drunk to call for a doctor.
Fellas! Said our friend, ( I called him Mr. Ripley) He’s gone!
And so was his watch, and his money, and his wife
neatly folded into Ripley’s pockets.

The truth was so vulgar,
the blood stains on his collar,
the smile almost appealed to our better nature,
as they cuffed him and dragged him away.

The party’s over boys!
Fooled! Us?
Very simple.
He killed us with a smile.