Was it the left? Was it the right?

Two houses at the end of the street,
was it the left,
was it the right?
Same color house
same size
same year built.
I never could tell my left
from my right
without my hands raised.

The house on the left
had a body on the counter
filled of knives,
a head hanging from the string
upon the fan,
and a basement
that conveniently flooded last week
in a little bit of rain.

It had to be them
they were twisted people
finding humor in death
and mutilation.
Who else could it have been?

The house on the right
clean cut
prayers at the dinner table
crosses upon the walls
wholesome that’s what they were
with a basement never to enter
because it was dusty and old.

Out of their houses
the left were often in a fight
pissed off
out at the store
screaming about the pickles upon the floor.
“It’s a slipping hazard!”
Hands in the air
clumsy fingers
always talking to the cashier
a flirtatious line
the cashier often rolled their eyes.

Out of their houses
on the right
ready to clean the spill
all themselves
because they were always quick
to lend a hand
keeping the floors clean
smiling at the cashier
a smile back, always polite they were.

Apologies
from the right
heads down
tears receding
prayers to the family
over a loss such as this.

Anger from the left
no apologies
as the son
was carried away in cuffs.
“What evidence?” They demanded
Video evidence of him pounding the cashier
in the back alley near the dumpsters
“It was mutual!” he yelled.

“They dated,” the mother cried out.
“She’s been over for dinner several times.”

A hand upon the cashiers body
that laid upon the slab
a last breath offered
“Left,” escaped its prison
“wait,” the words
fading with me
I never did know my left
from my right
without my hands raised.

Thanks for reading.
-Temperamentally Tina