The Physician
At the end of a dry, harsh August, as
Autumn slowly descends upon Whitechapel,
I begin my vicious practice.
From Buck’s Row to Hanbury Street,
I make each house call brief.
My methods most precise—each cut, so deep,
So effectively fatal, soft and discrete.
A secondary incision—
Across my new friend’s abdomen—
Completes my process.
Showcases the subtlety of my craft.
In Dutfield’s Yard, with a sharpened stroke,
I slice open her tender throat.
In Mitre Square in public view
The next victim shall follow suit.
At Miller’s Court, off Dorset Street,
I complete my grotesque exhibition.
With this sequence of dissections,
I have ushered in the twentieth century.
My ritual of dominance, with my altar—
The architecture of London herself.
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