There is a conversation being had nearby
I should not be overhearing.

Four cop cars clutter my vision,
a fifth is in the back
but I was here first.
A certain man from a building over
is the last to arrive.

Morbid curiosity 
pins me to my chair.

Only a few words make it into earshot–
contrasting words like:

                            told me eighteen
            thirteen
                             I would never!

An investigation to be had.
A sixth cop car rolls up.

Innocent until proven guilty
doesn’t mean
you don’t get the shivers.

Nor do I need proof
here in this case
to know
what happens elsewhere.

Still I pray that there’s just…
some misunderstanding
of any kind here.
I pray for finding solutions
ahead of bad things happening.

There are too many ways for men to destroy themselves.

Key goes into the ignition
and the airbag explodes
with seven unremembered miles.
Gambler loses all he doesn’t have.
Slippery slopes of substance abuse.
Sex or porn addict who craves
more more more more more.

This is poetry for failures
because what we really need more of
is talking to each other,
finding intentional ways
of filling the Empty
before something evil gets inside.

As for this conversation
I shouldn’t be hearing
nothing sounds like it rises
above alleged
but I can’t stay for the resolution.

It leaves me haunted just hoping
that a proper conclusion 
was eventually reached.