Himself: Swam, found two jobs to apply for, tried to drop a windows installer on my computer.
Herself: Swam, Poets Society, started reading a Dana Stabenow. Thinking about starting a new blog about the new quilt….working on the new quilt, that sort of thing. Taking the weekend off from blogging, and looking for all my old cops. I do miss them, and I have been seeing them in the news these last few days en re Comic Con.
Gratitude: All those wonderful women writers who liked my chapbook.
Old cops stand in shadows
hiding their aches, their survival, themselves,
leaning into hidden corners,
they scatter pleasantries
into the massive crowd
watching for miscreants
letting young cops stand in the light.
Old cops cover their injury related retirements
with garish Hawaiian shirts
disguising the bulge of revolvers
of guns, of arms, as they move money
through the beer drinking revelers
they used to arrest.
Old cops work with
feet in agony, backs fused, knees gone
pockets filled with nostrums
guaranteed to dull the pain,
they walk perimeters of sports,
concerts, games, gatherings,
waving paperwork instead of guns,
waving well-crafted words
to quell cacophonies, riots, and drunks,
they work addicted to their jobs
too broke to quit.
A Brown Trooper in full uniform.