Starpoet Newsletter Vol. VII, No LI

 

 

Down this desolate path,
Past three yellow warnings
That snow may block the roadway;
The sign to the coast points left,
The car drove right,
One lane, no guardrails, no markings,
No signs announcing the winding road,
Nothing except the snow and ice;
Across the broken pavement,
Across the gravel, then the dirt,
Nothing but an old logging road
Used only in summer,
A road usually locked
But the gate is broken:
Twenty miles down,
Where bush and branch
Scraped the car
James Kim started back
Through the snow and the wilderness,
-- Doing what he knew a man has to do --
Leaving his wife and two daughters
Waiting huddled in his car,
To find help for his family
And an honorable death
In the unforgiving hold
Of the mountain's winter.

 

One hooker,

Two hookers,

Three hookers,

Four,

Five hookers,

Six hookers,

Seven hookers,

More.

 

 

Some one is killing the girls of Ipswich,

Some man hates women once again:

A body in the brook, a body in the woods,

Detectives finding bodies every which where,

A serial killer, much neater than the Ripper,

Dispensing his victims without a knife:

You don't suppose, from deep in Whitechapel,

His ghost walks the shadows anew,

Still down on whores, still playing games,

Still daring us to catch him if we can.