The chorus of
a song from the Eighties
in my kitchen,
Angel’s car in my driveway
responds with bass, bass, bass,
words, thump, words, thump…then
some other car screws by
on two wheels coming down Fifth
from Mt. Vernon and takes out
Benny’s blue Taurus.
but not soon enough
to do anything about anything,
here come the cops.
Sorry — the nice policemen.
I recognize one. I recognize three.
They come through often enough
but never seem to know anyone’s name.
“This is what you get
from living among these people,”
says the cop on my doorstep,
condescending to me about the neighbors
who called him about the wreck
and who across the street are talking about
what the nice policemen will do next.
They are newer here than I. Benny,
I’ve been here a while. Gotta say
I already know the likely answer,
fear the possibilities beyond that.
I go inside and turn up the music.
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