Hello, My Name Is

You leave the bar with a man you don’t 
know. Never? Keep reading—you’re
safe. Alone in Central Park, August,
a month of endings and this is yours.
Your killer claims that a cat scratched
him, then that you raped him, finally 
that the whole incident was rough sex
gone too far, namely your dead body 
under his. Who can dispute this? Not 
you. You’re dead. Meanwhile, out
on bail, your killer goes to a party, chokes
a Barbie doll until her head pops off, says
Hello, my name is—oops, I think I killed
her. Laughs. Some of the other guests 
laugh; others look down at their drinks. 
One girl titters, says, You’re horrible, Robert,
slaps him on the arm. He turns, flashes
a smile, says, Not really that horrible, darling.