Starting Small (Poetry)
25th March 2012
They said it wasn’t in his nature to kill
but the instinct is in everyone —
and the rule’s the same
as for everything else —
start small and work up...
He wasn’t a wilful child — no sign
of aggression and never gave
his mother a moment’s worry
except, looking back, she admitted she knew
he was probably too good
to be true.
After all, any parent expected the odd drama —
the clash of wills around puberty
that sudden show of defiance...
But the rebellion never came
and no one saw the warning.
No empty glue pots underneath his bed
or crumpled copies of Penthouse
no forgotten condom packet
to reassure ‘boys will be boys’
a paragon of virtue —
through and through.
So no one had a bad word to say —
which made it harder to believe
he had it in him — at least
one vicious bone required
and a motive to explain
the doubt away.
Why? — the word hung heavy —
Was the man insane? —
this quietly-spoken educated guy
who never rocked the boat —
seemed disinclined
to complain.
Afterwards, she wondered about the goldfish
floating bellies-upward in the pond
and the broken-necked canary on
the kitchen floor
(he’d sworn the bird had flown into
an open cupboard door)
were they the clues she hadn’t seen
all those years before?
‘Previously of good character ’ —
the defence sounded pitifully lame —
but she hung on to the diminishing
chance he might be innocent
against the mounting evidence
he’d killed the girl — and likely
others, too.
He stood there — staring into space
untouched by the proceedings
a dreadful calm set on his face
no agitated desperate pleading...
It was then realization swamped her —
underneath he was an evil little prick
and, in truth, she’d never understood
what made him tick.
but the instinct is in everyone —
and the rule’s the same
as for everything else —
start small and work up...
He wasn’t a wilful child — no sign
of aggression and never gave
his mother a moment’s worry
except, looking back, she admitted she knew
he was probably too good
to be true.
After all, any parent expected the odd drama —
the clash of wills around puberty
that sudden show of defiance...
But the rebellion never came
and no one saw the warning.
No empty glue pots underneath his bed
or crumpled copies of Penthouse
no forgotten condom packet
to reassure ‘boys will be boys’
a paragon of virtue —
through and through.
So no one had a bad word to say —
which made it harder to believe
he had it in him — at least
one vicious bone required
and a motive to explain
the doubt away.
Why? — the word hung heavy —
Was the man insane? —
this quietly-spoken educated guy
who never rocked the boat —
seemed disinclined
to complain.
Afterwards, she wondered about the goldfish
floating bellies-upward in the pond
and the broken-necked canary on
the kitchen floor
(he’d sworn the bird had flown into
an open cupboard door)
were they the clues she hadn’t seen
all those years before?
‘Previously of good character ’ —
the defence sounded pitifully lame —
but she hung on to the diminishing
chance he might be innocent
against the mounting evidence
he’d killed the girl — and likely
others, too.
He stood there — staring into space
untouched by the proceedings
a dreadful calm set on his face
no agitated desperate pleading...
It was then realization swamped her —
underneath he was an evil little prick
and, in truth, she’d never understood
what made him tick.