Friday, 13

Jason, since your gloved gesture stopped me near this curb covered in lichens I stare at you straight in the eye a dead sea where the paragraphs of law swim as a bank of tuna you’re so tall, Jason that I’m wondering how come your epaulets are not covered in snow. you want to know who am I, where am I coming from, where am I going who was I talking to oh, Jason, let’s run away to Switzerland on the way I shall tell you how Father Christmas has flown over Africa without being stopped by any children you want my truth, Jason and you bring it out of me like the Americans the oil of Kuwait your voice is hiding my hands behind my back and I wonder where do you keep your handcuffs at night the sun is gazing through your badge like a spotlight in a room with no windows bypassing us is the traffic rolling like a conveyor belt in a biscuit factory and through this brrm stop brrm stop brrm stop only I know, Jason, how beautiful mornings are without your visor bent 45 degrees over this windshield ..dedicated to officer Jason K. from the Metropolitan Police, London