A    murderer in plain sight
cannot be detected
because they look like
everyone.
Anyone.
But—they have killed
someone.

Evidence is missed:
flecks of dried blood
under the fingernails,
a foreign hair woven
into their own,
their boarded-up existence
all glazed over.
Minutia.

The spin of the world,
the everyday
ignores the clues;
the murderer goes free.
Fits in.
Smiles.

Neighbors sleep well
surrounded, content
in normalcy
until a grisly discovery
shatters the façade.

A shadow falls across
the town from the headlines,
bold and dark.