The act of sliding his right arm inside
the sleeve of his designer raincoat
tore an almost-invisible thread
which released a tissue-wrapped bit of powder
into a few drops of liquid left at the bottom
of the triple-density waterproof pocket.
It may have been there for some time;
poised for the next, inevitable, storm.
The poison developed slowly,
(she’d been such a good girl in school)
until he took his place behind the wheel,
crushing the expensive fabric
and forcing the pocket open.
Released, the almost odorless gas
filled the tiny sports car, unheeded,
until he lost
consciousness—just long enough.
Pedigreed power, briefly free of his iron control,
escaped along a rain-slick road
and soared over a cliff toward the distant horizon.
until the crash, too soon, at the very bottom
on pain-sharp rocks at the edge of the pounding surf.
When they finally retrieved
his broken and wave-whipped body,
there would be no trace of what was, after all,
a common industrial byproduct.
It was the perfect crime.
he loaned his raincoat
to her beautiful, sixteen year old son,
hoping to avoid