I feel my life is like a novel: at least,
Inasmuch as it is the imperfect crime.
Right at the denouement, how the killer
In every Agatha Christie must feel such
An arse. Having studiously changed
The clock in the drawing room to half past ten,
Hidden the arsenic and the revolver
Behind the rhododendrons, wiped
The fingermarks of his crime from the fire iron,
Only now, to become unstuck:
Before he gets the girl, or claims the vast
Insurance policy, or flees to Rome;
Before he gets to say, “I killed the bastard,
And I’d do it again!” and leap with jubilation
Onto the terrace and over the links, to freedom,
For some tedious do-gooder to lean in,
Sanctimonious, and in one gesture
Read from the lipstick on his collar everything
To damn him to the gallows: that is how
Being marked by you condemns me, dear.