mystery novels end too soon

[heslopian]

mystery novels end too soon.
the killer is caught, the loose threads tied,
until we're left with a pretty patchwork
of identity, motive, timelines and clues.
but then what becomes of the innocent?
the killer's fiancee, his bride or her groom,
their family, friends, their employers?

I imagine them all gathered in the dark,
like rocks before the advent of light,
waiting for the next chapter,
or else a sequel to catch up with them,
checking their watches and tutting like Brits
in line at the post office.

the sleuth drives off into the sunset,
Marlowe merry with brandy and steak,
Brandstetter dwelling on boyfriends past,
Warshawski flicking lint off her skirt,
and whoever was the hero of Spillane's penny crap
probably banging another hooker.

they philosophise some, round off their gambit,
and leave in a flurry of blank pages.

while the innocent still wait in the dark.
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