Sylvia

Keep your head out of
that gas oven
no matter the time of day.
It couldn't help you choose,
Mrs. Hughes,
between yourself and they.

Those children were sleeping
in an adjacent room
while you fancied some doom.

Your wet towels were a slap
in their face
although stuffed under the doors
in no apparent haste.

As part of the scheming,
you became the turkey dreaming
of her Sunday roast.

Whatever happened to the ghost
writing on her kitchen floor?

Shouldn't she have arisen
and opened the door
for the au pair at nine?

The painters with a key on time
might have been out of breath,
but it was your death.