hanging from our belts
within a foot of the guns
that get us into trouble.
His boots are caked
with snow like mine.
The end of our similarities
is punctuated by the passing
of my license and registration
through the window of my truck.
Rollers in my rear view
remind me of being pulled over
within a mile of here
in the eastbound direction
two years ago on my birthday
the love of my life
having dodged the radar
as well as she'd dodge my ring.
I don't tell this six-two man
standing in the cold before dawn
next to the crumbling rumble strip
that a song Jackie liked
came on the radio
and made my foot heavy
though maybe that transparency
would have pierced his badge
and Kevlar vest
to find some lingering heart tissue.
He hands me the ticket
reciting his oration
injected with subtle advice
about how to plead
then mentions the respect I've given
resulting in continued courtesy
in the form of a few miles
knocked off the record
that should help me in court immensely
to avoid adding points
to my license.
His robotic delivery is livened up
by instructions to detach
the supporting deposition
at the bottom of the ticket
and make a paper airplane
or origami with it.
I thank him for being a gentleman
apologize for making him
come out in the cold
and refrain from saying I'm glad
to pay his pension and salary.
Some get you coming.
Some get you going.
Some get you coming and going
when they come and go.
Currently reading:
"To Ride, Shoot Straight, and Speak the Truth" by Jeff Cooper.
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