The Murder

Apathetic fingers release
the multicolored, silver-lined pocket
that held chips.
It flutters past legs of tables and people
to a concrete resting place.
Anguished air moves the cellophane
to a bed of life
where innocent leaves coil back
and wither in submission.
The soil,
the bees,
the surrounding carpet of green,
watch their helpless friend
and cry,
“Why?”
The answer is a stream of eyes
flowing past,
not urging the feet to turn,
not commanding the fingers to move,
not forcing the heart to care,
not stopping the murder,
not recognizing the accomplice.