A good french murder

He followed her wanting to know
if French wine really was as good as raspberries,
if she smoked gallotes, owned a salad spinner
or a bidet.

She didn't make it easy
with her different coloured coats and closed curtains.

On Wednesday he found himself in her flat
watching her feet scrabble the grey floor
bringing up the turquoise painted underneath.

He was surprised the cat did not cry,
the birds did not rise.
He watched the cello fall
like a barnacled whale out of water.

The red reading chair across the street
secreted springs into the old lady's knees
as she twisted to get a better view
of the punch and judy sillhouettes.