The Real Inspector
	
	The real inspector poked me
	in the ribs. "No wound," he said.
	I lifted the bullet to his nose.
	"Only hearsay evidence, sir."
	This was a kind of defeat.
	I sat down. I was innocent.
	The inspector scratched his head.
	"Once more, sir, if you don't mind."
	He punched me in the side. I gasped.
	He found it: a small-caliber
	tunnel to my lungs. "Very clean, sir,
	a regular work of art." Could I breathe?
	The inspector lit a match.
	Looked in. A voice sang out.
	His whiskers turned to ice.
	"Something's there," he said.
	
	I saw the bulge beneath his mackintosh.
	"You don't really carry a . . .?"
	He chewed his moustache. "Sorry,
	sir, it's just my job.
	Shall we try it again?"
	He plunged his hand into my side,
	the wind rushed through his fingers,
	my nerves hummed like harps.
	A small bird hopped on a rib.
	It peeped. The inspector
	backed away and smiled.
	"You understand," he said,
	"it's still hearsay."
	He tipped his bowler, ta ta,
	climbed out the window,
	and I began to sing.
	                          -- John Allman