Bad Roommates
It’s just as well that when I met Mister Sherlock Holmes
he already shared lodgings with stolid Watson in Baker Street.
We would not have got on. I could bear the violin, pipe,
and chemicals (I have borne worse), even his cocaine
and indoor target practice
but I would grow weary of crossing the carpet on eggshells,
like tiptoeing late past a vigilant and severe parent’s
cracked bedroom door, strip of light visible beneath.
I believed in Sherlock Holmes; my father believed in God.
Did dad ever worry (like I do), that the state of his cuffs
or the pattern of mud on his trousers
might give away where he’d been and what he’d been up to?
Did he ever wonder which was worse, being the one
gifted to see and know all, or the one cursed
to be forever seen through?
About the Author: Dudley Stone’s poetry is Pushcart Prize-nominated and has recently appeared in Neologism Poetry Journal and The Headlight Review. He is a graduate of the University of Kentucky and a proud member of the Kentucky State Poetry Society. Mr. Stone lives in Lexington, KY. See more of his work at dudleystone.com.
Image Credit: Sherlock Holmes The Federal Theatre Project (U.S.) Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress
As It Ought To Be 