You’ve seen murderer hair.
Sure you have.
It is the hair of a murderer,
the tonsorial statement of a shotgun killer
or wee-hours blunt instrument-wielder.
By lamplight his arm is raised again and again
his maddened forelock swinging with the effort.
The assault on human tissue
happens out of frame, thankfully.
You’ve seen murderer hair on
the frightened and frightening
Midwestern boobs who cunningly
creep into farmhouses
and butcher the sleeping family.
The inevitable mugshot is suggestive;
anxious motion, stunted dreams
(I’m talking here about the victims)
and a fleeing do-nothing surprised
to find himself running, fast.
Apprehended some days later
the miscreant wears a necktie
with a heartbreaking
and glowers at his own misfortune.
Even at the mugshot phase
of his denouement
he wishes to frighten
but this is the bravado
of the fallen and could
under another sun
move you to tears.
The handsome pugilist freeze-frame
speaks to forces
only vaguely aligned with evil,
the enviably luxurious hair swept back,
a pompadour of failed flight.