The Detective, in his Office

Adam Smith is in the first year of his degree in English with Creative Writing.

The dirt-digger halts by the window, the city’s hands

offering gifts to his raptor gaze.

Finds nothing. Looks away to the desk

with red lamp, old; pens, three, black; paper, blank.

Three taps on the door, quickly-paced, soft;

the nervous and the reckless call at once.

His thoughts like a film-reel, scanning and seeking,

flitting through images, facts – to escape?

Opens the door, emerging to corridor with water cooler,

plant-pot (needs watering), painting of a boat

and no soul in sight.

The mastermind shrugs, his only hope now

that the caller’s doubt was down to pricing.

Back to the city: can you find Wally now?

The sirens scream. Of course they do.