Jeffrey Dahmer's Ghost

I thrust the crumpled map into my wife's lap,
And snap at her in frustration,
"You navigate if you think you can do any better!"
I sulk.

Our bronze Plymouth Breeze slows at another junction,
In this dilapidated Milwaukee neighbourhood,
Peopled by the poor and weak,
Who eye us with suspicion from the sidewalk,
Or front porch.

My wife coaxes the car forward,
And returns the map to my possession,
My clammy, nervous hands grip it tightly,
As my mind pictures the ghost of Jeffrey Dahmer,
Flying out from behind a set of twitching curtains,
And giving chase to our vehicle.

Later we pull into the car park,
At the Miller brewery and I let out a long sigh,
Jeffrey's flesh-craving phantom is far behind us now,
And ten days of Lake Michigan views lay ahead,
We have reached our first port of call,
Thanks to my wife's nose,
She simply followed it,
And here we are.