Arlene Ang
Beyond the Orient Express

As the train snakes into a tunnel,
you consider Poirot and feel,
as the coach sparks at curves,

your unbleached mustache sizzle
to be waxed for investigation.

The dimness may cue murderers —
a young hippie who headfalls for support
against a matron's ruffled cleavage,

a child obsessively stroking
the blonde doll in his sister's arms,

the conductor who punches holes
in tickets when not targetting skulls
with a red-lit silencer.

Is there mystery being inside a python,
melting into the intestines of a mountain?

You proceed to guess the identities
of passengers, blithely unconscious of being
another unidentifiable victim after the crash.