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He found them at bus stops or walking alone.

He came up behind them and showed them his knife.

He was fair-haired.

He had his father’s blue eyes.

His mother had red eyes; how crazy was that.

He went once a week for Sunday dinner.

Tonight was a fine night, he decided to walk.

He looked like a lifeguard.

He looked like the summer.

Six o’clock, every Sunday;

when the old man said be there, you didn’t say no.

The potatoes were cold, one thing led to another.

His mother had red eyes; like father, like son.

He was blue-eyed.

He looked like his father.

He came up behind them.

He showed them his knife;

sometimes he’d swear he could hear the knife speak.

Six o’clock, every Sunday,

one thing led to another;

potatoes and butter

on her face, in her hair.

He found them at bus stops or walking alone.

His knife did the talking. They didn’t say no.

It's cold, the knife said, and they look like summer;

they looked like his mother.

How crazy was that.