What The Cops Don’t Know

What The Cops Dont Know prose poem

Photo by Eric.Ray

This is told in the perspective of a young boy.

When I look at my mother,
I picture her grave,
Untidy and old,
Covered in mold.

I picture the knife ,
Used to end her,
The pool of blood,
She slept in.

I picture the cops,
Circling her body,
Searching for evidence,
And just about anything.

They’d find my prints on everything,
But what scared child wouldn’t ,
Hold their mother.

But what they don’t know,
Is they found the killer,
But who is to believe,
That little o’l me,
Could do such a thing.

Now that would be just plain evil.

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