The mysteries and, of course, the murder
are all revealed in a parchment envelope
marked ‘Confidential’
and placed beside Mr. Boddy
along with his deceased wealth of knowledge
in the cellar.
Professor Plum, noted metaphysician,
sipping sherry in the conservatory
points out that we see only the tip
of the iceberg and miss the berg.
It’s there in the brain, filtered,
unintegrated.
Colonel Mustard belting single malt,
his seed larger than
the kingdom
of Heaven
is preoccupied in the billiard room
with the hiked skirt of Miss Scarlet
who leans into a massé shot,
reflectively pointing out that,
reality only exists when
it bumps into another reality.
The colonel in a whiskey rasp retorts
Poppycock, balderdash, it’s all just
deductive reasoning,
Mr. Green is sure that matter
is mostly empty, fluffed probability,
more like thought than thing,
and that the government knows all
but refuses to tell,
at least this generation.
Mrs. Peacock practicing saying
Good evening in the mirror
says that she can prove it
if we join her in the library
and that the height of arrogance
is creating God in your own image.
Mrs. White, busy inspecting
the table settings in the dining room,
is convinced that while there is no
out there out there independent of in here,
her main concern is that no one suspects
her of stealing the small shampoos and lotions.
