The Lady and the Killer

She didn’t know it would be the last thing she’d see -
The newsflashes of disaster awakening the distress
She happily renews each evening at six.
When she hears the knock at the door
Interrupting her favorite rite
She rises, annoyed at the intrusion of knuckles on wood.
It is a pain to retrieve the walker, and her gait is a shuffle.
A flash of anger in her eyes, she makes her way to the door,
To her doom.
Opening one door she closes another one forever
As the TV calmly sounds the alert.

He settles in her chair
And lays the black cane across his lap,
The steel canine head stained with her life force,
And stiffly pulls each finger free from the yellow bloodstained glove.
His movements jerky
He frees the covered hands from their confinement.
Lying gloves aside with guilty nimble fingers,
He takes the orphaned cup and lifts it.
His jaw, smooth and flawless as a babe’s,
Save the streak of crimson from the old woman’s face,
Adjusts as he opens the cruel mouth
And sips.

He waits, black eyes seeing his next victim, 
Set to join the woman on the other side of here,
And enjoys her orange pekoe.