Ben Brown

There’s been a string of

disappearances

 in the neighborhood.

In a single month, Pastrami Sandwich, Pot Roast

all vanished

macabre traces remain

foul play certain

now Apple Pie’s gone missing

little crust flakes and splattered filling gobs on the morning floor.

There’s a killer in the kitchen.

Authorities baffled, residents hysterical

telling tales of “clickety-clacks” approaching in the night

each time to take yet another victim

At breakfast, I try to crack the case

dog comes over to say good morning

cheerful tail thwacking

eyeing my breakfast, licking his lips

yawning

with breath smelling odd

good, even, like

cinnamon, or like

apples