I tail him on unruly backroads,
high beam lights irradiating from
my car into his;
a hawk extending his talons.
My siren, the trumpet,
blazing through the air to the tune of Reveille;
his car stammers off
to the side of the road.
Rubber shoes clanking on the walk there,
flashlight leaving glass-hair
fissures in the window
that was left half-rolled up. Sliding
his registration through the crack like
a box office attendant.
Nerves in his arm
quiver while sliding across denim, thick
jacket covering his waist,
pulling a gun. Commanding he step out
of the vehicle, my hand
already on the door handle;
peeling him out of his seat
by the collar of his shirt. Dragging
him against the asphalt,
wanting him to give me a reason,
a yearning anticipation flexing
the muscles in my hand.
Smoothing them over like stroking the
feathers of a bird, coaxing -
Soles of my shoes pressed against the back of his neck,
pebbles creating indentations in his face.
My finger on the trigger,
bullet whizzes into his shoulder blades.
thunder cracks inside my body,
his eyes going wide.
Residue spewing like morse code.
down at the asphalt, as he sputters like a faulty
lifeless. The 9mm feeling buoyant in my hands,
his I.D. falling out of his.
My head lazily
moving towards my walkie;
his blood cascading down my index finger,
pausing at the call button
before finally saying:
we have a 217.