From The Executioner’s Wife
Only in his nightmares did he whisper about
"t’other job." His personal record,
17 war criminals before sauerkraut.
I didn’t make that lunch for him.
A German mistress, one would guess.
He had a way of charming women with
the musty smell of extinction.
But it was I who
scrubbed the death stains
from his shorts.
It was I who pressed his pants
and ironed his spotless shirts.
(No use looking sloppy when
it comes to death).
God knows how he got the job.
A primly typed resume on
skull and cross bones letterhead
with striking gold inset
on a washed out bond.