I love to read again this old whodunnit,
pretending I'm Monsieur Hercule Poirot
and, though it’s cheating, learn just how much fun it
is knowing where all of the pieces go,
precisely where A. Christie deemed they should,
those most unlikely plotting well their crime,
with twists to fool poor sleuths not quite as good
as me, at least when it’s the second time
or maybe third or fourth I’ve read her book,
recalling clues which I had long forgotten,
the wily suspects I at first mistook
for villainous, the corpse whose life was rotten.
I guess the motives and so acquiesce
to murder on the Orient Express.
