Serial Killer

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My father was a serial killer 

but I loved him, anyway.

You wouldn't know it 

from seeing him every day;

his double-life.

Came home from work after 6,

plopped down in his La-Z-boy

with a glass of Crown Royal - two fingers

and exactly three cubes of ice -

in front of the six-thirty news.

Cursed the screen: Nixon, Vietnam,

the high price of gas. 

Checked the TV Guide for who the Habs

were playing on Saturday. 

I sat at his feet, while mother

cooked dinner in the kitchen, shepherd's pie.

She knew, was in denial, 

or maybe hiding his secret.

Next morning, the alarm

set to talk-radio, he'd half-listen

for reports of his victims

from the previous night,

while he tied his perfect Windsor knot

in front of the mirror, a real expert.

His Old Spice was part

of the cover-up.

That smell always ruined 

the taste of my Corn Flakes.

Then he'd slip out of the house,

without a word.

I watched mother clean up the mess,

and looked for evidence. 

Stains on clothes, or shoes. 

A missing table knife. 

But he was too clever.

She kept a tidy house, took the garbage out

in large Glad bags. Laundry was washed 

and folded into neat little squares. 

  

Like I say, I suspect 

she was in on it.

I fear I might carry

the serial killer gene too.