Square head, bouffant, mancala beads for eyes
A mystery she solves in tan raincoats
The ribbon black with ink, with this she writes
her own design, in type, “murder,” she wrote
An Irish dame straight from New England coves
So unassuming, a flashlight and pen
Autumnal calling, season’s final rose
Meat pies, gaslight, the last Manchurian
Her voice is not some wilting thing, it shakes
in such a noble way. Each episode
she finds her man. The ground beneath her quakes.
She breaks an egg like she cracks every code.
A tiny spoon is set beside the plate.
Lo, underneath the fragile shell, your fate.