A Narrative

At long last he came to the moat,
but the shifty-eyed child under the pagoda
caused his lordship to doubt the oracle's predictions
and he clutched the tattered manuscript tighter to his chest.

Meanwhile, in the grotto, the baker's daughter in an embrace
with the dashing young haberdasher, makes the fateful discovery
that his birthmark is on the wrong cheek
and the townsfolk are never to hear from her again.

By the Canterbury Inn, the mob gathered
calling out for blood and retribution
only to be greeted by an empty carriage and its contents:
a bouquet of withered rose petals and a monacle.

On the following Sunday,
having directed the servants to draw a bath,
Mr. X_______ soaks in his late uncle's tub,
and tears up the gold-sealed envelope unread.

But despite the widow's dire warning
no message had come from the asylum
and they hugged each other, breathing a sigh of relief
only to be interrupted by a sound coming from behind the cellar door.

Indeed, after they had found the remains of his vestments in the shrubbery
it now became apparent that something had happened
to the young curate and there was nothing left for them to do
but wait until sundown to make the grim announcement.

At the rooster's crow, however, the apothecary and his assistant
finally finished burying the evidence and they celebrated
with a snifter of port each only for the apothecary to too late
notice his speech slurring a little too much a little too soon.

That noon the thirteen guests gathered around the table
and eagerly awaited the tycoon's further instructions
only for the timid young typesetter to notice a card upon her chair
which read: Goodbye, my compatriots. Don't look up.

*

Here's a new piece. It was great to see you all on Tuesday. Now let's poesy! G