Dead or Alive

Dead or Alive

Two doors down a rusty Bronco rests between the neighbor's house
and his shed. I believe there is a dead body in the back seat.
As I mow, edge, and trim I look over my shoulder. See her
dull, glazed-over eyes staring through the back window.

Her forehead leaning against the window, smeared pink
lipstick. One handprint runs down the length of the pane.
This is a quiet neighborhood. Sidewalks, big trees, children
walking to school. One you might see on television. On Disney

or the Crime channel where everyone exclaims surprise
at a serial killer in their midst. He was such a nice man.
Meanwhile, he comes and goes. Killing. A seemingly normal
existence. How long will it be before the corpse decomposes,

maggots scooch across the dash and flies buzz about her.
Meanwhile, I mow, edge, and trim. Sip the occasional lemonade
on my side patio. Afraid to notify the police. Scared I am the
trapped woman, dull glazed-over eyes. Moving nowhere.