Holmes

A cricket bat propped up against the door,
A few stray papers, and a glass of wine
Sitting untouched down on the wooden floor,
Some clothing hanging from a laundry line
Not quite dry yet, two books, bookmarked but closed,
And three spent matchsticks. Clearly these display
The symptoms of disorder, all composed
In disarray - composed in it, I say,
Because there is intention in the mess.
That glass is poisoned, but not touched at all;
The clothes - a pair of trousers and a dress -
Do not belong here, and the bat should fall
Were it not fixed in place. It's all a ruse
I know who did it, and I will accuse.