coping with cops, that drive with a dozen donuts on the front seat

yeah, we went at it again,
with our throats hung out
tongues cutting away
at each other like knives,
until the padding cops came
laughing at us as usual,
asking me, what is it this time,

and I will say
the world still fucked
as these words are fucked,
and no matter what I say,
they will arrest me,
and offer me up a glazed
with rainbow sprinkles,
and I will turn it down,
and watch them spill their
coffee at a tight-curb-turn,
knowing all too well

the sun will rise tomorrow
and maybe the ocean will
shift 3.2 degrees below,
those awful cornered smiles
and bread making babies
strolling in the streets
with motherís disaster,

until handcuffs come off
and the bars lock in place,
after the bail is posted,
until we fight again, maybe a
smashed bottle over the head,
or pulled out hair in fingers,
and they will come again
writing it off as a cause of
domestic violence,
not really caring that one day
it might be a trigger pulled,
and a cooling body on the
kitchen floor,

and me wondering if
they will have that grape-jelly
filled with sugar-powder one,
that Iíve been requesting
these last ten rides.

Anthony Liccione lives in Texas with his two children. His poems have appeared in several print and online journals, and he has four collections of poetry books.

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