Jack

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
Shroud.
Fevered, he steps over her
Out into the cold dawn.

Jamie Morris
August 8, 1990

—

Clearly, this poem is about Jack the Ripper.