I am a humbug

It jumps you on the way home,
holds on, tells you it's going
GNNNFF
to kill you, then is gone.
The penny drops.
I'm a fraud.
You start to question everything,
from why NOT murder? to whether,
since you were delirious with pain at the time,
that child is even yours. To whether
that weighty burlap bundle
entrusted to you for despatch
wouldn't look better remaining here.
And we are so poor!
The imagination darts about as if crosshared.
How? Honour, for Pete's! But we
are SO poor!
No!
Even now, as you dump down the sack,
unopened, you slap away demons.
The red wine won't come out of the covers.
You thought it.
Damn it. And damn you.