New Pattern

I walk the quiet suburban streets.
Hands in pockets. Black hood tight
In the autumn drizzle.
        A mind no longer my own.
        The voice, the venom—
        The awful mother tone.

Chains hold back barking dogs.
Instincts sharp. Teeth protect
Their tiny green islands.
        They stand their ground.
        I grunt, I growl—
        They yelp and back down.

Who senses intrusion, murder,
The way birds sense storms
In the bloody summers?

Who knew it was I that came and went
Through the left open windows and doors
Of complacency?

The police don’t know a goddamn thing.
Searching for me in the big city,
In the summer, a man stalking housewives.
        Knives fresh off the stone.
        The blade, the butcher—
        “He always cuts through bone.”

Now I walk your suburban streets.
Rope in pocket. Demons afloat
In the crisp autumn air.
        Yards full of bikes and toys.
        New play, new pattern—
        Hello girls and boys . . .

And the police will stretch further back.
And further back. Indefinitely.
Until one of us disappears.