There is a police officer in the coffee shop.
He does not stand with his guns drawn in the doorway of the entrance.
No, he sits around his cop buddies; a tall, bald egg shaped man with crossed arms and dark shades glued to his nose , which hovers over a thick gray mustache on his hispanic face.
The gun that sleeps on his side and the baton that caresses his leg change him as a person. I wonder if he is on a power trip. I wonder if he beats on his wife. I wonder if he has grandchildren, and if he does I wonder if they know those things in which he has done.
From here I can see a little more than the parade of ass-kissers whom make up the workers can see; busy as bees behind the counter, waiting on the smiling, the charming group of older men.
I singled out this particular officer because he seemed, by his suspicious stare, to be deprived of some sort of respect: a respect to fine for any regular human being. He seems to ask for what is not attainable, then pout when the results are not given.
Sometimes a man will demand admiration where none is deserved.
I wonder if they can see it too…
Or if actions are simply speaking louder than words, and those glasses that he wears in the shade of the indoors do not conceal his lack of moral zeal.
Are actions deceiving. Do words spill like honey?
I ran away.
I’d rather be here than home, and have no name, free to wander alone.
Drip, Drip, Drip