The Problem

The Problem

The bruise on her face wasn’t

the problem, but hiding it

at work – people asked her

“Where did you get that?”

“What’ve you been up to?”

She’d have to lie – it was

the new dog, she jumped up at me

a bit too forcefully, or

I tripped down the stairs

and hit my cheek – let’s

go for lunch.

Change the subject.

The fractured ribs weren’t a problem.

Just walking like normal, in pain

“You’re so clumsy”, “Yeah I know,

It won’t happen again.”

The smack on the head wasn’t the

problem – just where to hide the body.

Phone in – “She’s not feeling well” whilst

carting her corpse into the boot.

A forty minute drive, the traffic was

a problem. The shovel, sweat, rain.

But when her boss needed answers

For his gain not hers, he rang

 her mobile, switched off.

‘Shit! Should’ve taken the battery out’.

The problem was becoming a problem,

so he took a gun to his head –

police raided the house, blood and brains,

found a note ‘I loved her.’

Eventually her body was found.

                                                              

Dug up, examined, confirmed:

that the husband wasn’t the only problem

but the lack of people concerned.