A Hershey's Dark Chocolate
Mack truck of a deputy
lumbers up a
single set of stairs,
clipboard in hand.
Her confection complexion
erupts in shiny beads
of sweat.
Mustache glissening
Dollar Store extensions
have as much in common with
the color and texture of
her own hair as
puppies and pyrotechnics.
"Fabor, Schaffer."
Flip Wilson's Gereldine
calls pairs of names
for head count.
"Jones, Johnson."
The monotonous list
seasoned with barked orders
"Look out noise!
What- you in love with one 'nother?"
Welding her authority
with the same awkward clumsiness
that she exhibited
climbing to the upper tier.
I wonder about her home life.
Her live in Man can't stay
long but swipes ten bucks
from her purse.
" ... guess y'all don' wont no
yard call,smokey isit is in here."
Perhaps Momma over fed
her, compensating.
No Dad around.
"Get off my doors!
Three steps back,
You don know me!"
Maybe little boys
made fun of a
chubby eight year old,
sing-song voices calling
'Fatty, Fatty two by four'
"Booth, wheres yo' I.D. ?
You got Twenty Four hours
lock down."
I don't care about her homelife
or her chidhood.
I hate that bitch.
I catch my rack and
roll another cigarette.
