Could you recognize a serial killer?
This one, from choice not guilt, buys his wife roses.
Not for him the Rose of Appeasement.
And each day, on return from work, two children greet him with bona fide love.
Even the dog wakes from its dull sleep and wags its mindless tail.
His wife, without fail, pecks him on the cheek
And thinks to herself: He’s mine! Or something.
A dinner-party raconteur.
In his firm but unspoken grip, he holds men’s minds and women’s hearts;
Charms the ladies with dark looks and an urbane persona.
In the wider community, his foothold is strong and also tacit.
One Sunday past, at St. Peters, dressed in a perfectly-ironed suit and perfectly-polished shoes, He read, in a perfectly-polished voice (born of the local Grammar) from St. Paul’s Corinthians.
The congregation listened intently to a voice of subterranean faith.
Below the recited passage, he noted a missive
Not spoken aloud in our Pious Age of the Politically Correct.
Silently he read the following: “It is a good thing for a man to have nothing to do with a woman.”
Five miles elsewhere, at the same time, three women lay down at peace. Dead.
Dead deep inside a forgotten skip abandoned to Dogging Wood.
Each corpse was methodically, meticulously, dismembered.
And all the while the public and the family slept.
Soon after these unbecoming deaths,
The death-smell’s putrid dissonance harmonized with inorganic waste.