The answer is John Doe
A name without a name,
A person without identity,
Sometimes a covered corpse
But always the chance victim.

Between mirror and face
No glimmer of recognition,
A stranger stares back mildly
Curious, doubtless confused
As to whom he really is.

Who’s this gaper that meets
Me with a smirk like health itself?
The grin is way worn and the face
Bears scant account of any deed, black
Or otherwise. Did BTK appear
As peaceful to his chance dead?

What line of work calls him?
What system of belief? Which one
Rules — work, faith or another
Master? I still don’t like the lips;
The bias suggests ridicule.

I do not trust this man
Who seems bereft of any answers
And doubtless rife with excuses.
Just look at how he holds himself,
Immune to the question—
Who am I?

– Timothy L Rodriguez