Trembling in the shadows
He stands silently.
Blood dries on his shaking hands
And drips off the stainless steel blade.
In the distance, the city tower warns him
That morning is still advancing.
He pays the prostrate lady two bits,
One for each penetration.
Fog envelopes them, becoming her
Fevered, he steps over her
Out into the cold dawn.
August 8, 1990
Clearly, this poem is about Jack the Ripper.