Where the Mysteries Are
Miss Nancy Drew, the teen detective,
could make me think my life defective.
Amazing girl—in each book’s pages,
so clever, pretty, and courageous.
I longed to solve crimes like my hero
but my attempts all came to zero.
I played in woods and fields in lieu
of righting wrongs like Nancy Drew.
While my detecting life was stagnant,
Nancy was a mystery magnet.
A hidden staircase, dusty attic,
she’d always find the enigmatic.
On country roads, beside a trellis,
she’d nab the crooks. It made me jealous.
My search for someone acting shady
just led me to the Avon lady.
Perhaps when I can drive a car
I’ll get to where the mysteries are,
for Nancy’s roadster let her roam,
while I just had to stay at home.
Until then I would keep on trying
to snoop on foot and do some spying.
I carried on, but found no clues,
was forced to live on Nancy’s coups.
In time I learned that they’re not rare,
that what I’d sought is everywhere,
and often there’s a wild conundrum
right inside the daily humdrum,
like where time goes—its destination,
and why there’s less when on vacation;
like how flies flee as if they knew
exactly what I meant to do;
or why I lose things—such a waste—
that turn up once they’ve been replaced;
and why—it almost seems a trick—
the slowest line’s the one I pick.
Pam Lewis is a retired psychologist living in Madison, Wisconsin. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry East, Journal of Humanistic Mathematics, Lighten Up Online, and other places. She has not been the same since she learned about dark matter.