Ben Newell

you could be ted bundy

I’m outside the bar,
trying to summon a cab
with my device,
but the cabbie says
he’s not in the area,
so I click off
and, fairly drunk, approach
a pair of college girls
sitting on the
curb—

“I’ll give you forty dollars
if you give me a ride home.”

They laugh
and one of them
says, “I thought you were going
to pay us to make out.”

“That’s not a bad idea,”
I say.

They ultimately
decline: “You look like a nice guy
but for all we know
you could be Ted Bundy.”

And they’re right;
I could be Ted Bundy,
perhaps I’m a late bloomer—

Walking away
without sharing my obsession
with all things Ted,
that I’ve read every book
worth reading,
studied the man and
his crimes,

know the story up
and down and am
actually somewhat
of an authority.

Hell, I even write poems
about Ted,
some of which have been
published in small underground
zines.

No,
I don’t say a word about
any of this
before moseying off
to call a different cab,
feeling less like Ted
than ever,
disgusted by my utter lack
of charm and charisma.

He wouldn’t have taken no
for an answer,
not in this parking lot
and certainly not later
when he removed his
mask.