Talking About Murder

The couple next to me at the counter is
Talking about murder.
I'm sure of it.
She says, No one deserves it more than he does.
He says, Accidents happen.
I try to ignore them,
Concentrate on my eggs,
Sip coffee.
But my ears are tuned to their huddle,
She says, I don't feel guilty about it.
He says, No one will know.
I look around to see if anyone else has heard,
But the rest of the diner is chirping with mundane conversation.
I chance a glance at the man,
Long black hair, strong nose.
Why does he seem familiar?
He catches me looking at him,
And I wonder if he's now sizing me up for elimination, as well.
How much does he think I overheard?
I ask the waiter for my check and hand him my credit card,
But now the man and woman are aware of me.
A wall of coldness rises between us.
I act nonchalant and check my phone, eye the ceiling,
Pretend I don't know anything,
And wonder if they were talking about me in the first place.

© Poem Fix 2012
Image by Tatmouss

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