Psychopath

Wouldn’t it be strange to meet a psychopath
Stand three feet from his demonic skull
And stare into his sunken eyes which
You know must crinkle with warmth
Every time he harvests human life?

What would it be like to watch him brush his teeth
For two silent minutes under a flickering florescent light
Would he perhaps swish differently than the rest of us
Does he count his brushstrokes
How does he look at himself in the mirror?

What sitcoms does he watch late in the evening
Can he smile at the jokes as the blue light
And radio waves wash over his face
Does he ever slip a midnight snack between his crooked teeth
Dose he worry about his weight?

How horrible to meet a psychopath face-to-terrible face
Maybe from the perspective of his nondescript victims
To have a little of his twisted soul waft into your
Head as you make eye contact
To perhaps recognize a little psychopath within yourself?