a packet in my pocket

I had a packet of butterscotch krimpets in my pocket
a packet in my pocket
a packet in my pocket

I put them in my pocket as I went outside
with a big cup of coffee and a plate
of Vegemite toast. My hands were full,
so I put

a packet in my pocket
a packet in my pocket

and I settled down with everything
into the reclining chair. Leaned all the way back,
with my coffee and toast, and cigarettes
and lighter right there, and the krimpets

carefully withdrawn and placed
on the chairside table, all set and cozy.

I didn't have a packet in my pocket at that point
I didn't have a packet in my pocket at that point

And I was reading Joseph Conrad
to complete the scene. He was of racist times,
for sure.

After the toast and during the coffee,
with deep satisfaction I picked up the packet
of butterscotch krimpets, to open it

and I saw

It was open on one end. The cellophane
gaped wide. My mind considered whether these krimpets
were safe, or had been tampered with.

By what means? Some chemical, brushed-on?
A solution of deadly germs in a spray?
Or a needle

stealthily injecting an injection
for the unsuspecting to ingest?

In that case they needn't have opened the packet,
though. And these butterscotch krimpets

were the last. I ate them, reflecting
that they had probably come open in my pocket.

probably come open in my pocket

But just in case of my mysterious death,
this poem cries out from beyond the grave

(everywhere is beyond some grave, surely?
look at all the cemeteries) and points

a slim grim sepulchral finger
accusingly at the truth