The cop slumps alertly on his motorcycle,
Supported by one leg like a leather stork.
His glance accuses me of loitering.
I can see his eyes moving like a fish
In the green depths of his green goggles.
His ease is fake. I can tell.
My ease is fake. And he can tell.
The fingers armored by his gloves
Splay and clench, itching to change
something.
As if he were my enemy or my death,
I just standing there watching
I spit out my gum which has gone stale.
I knock out a new cigarette --
Which is my bravery.
It is all imperceptible:
The way I shift my weight,
The way he creaks in his saddle.
The traffic is specific though constant.
The sun surrounds me, divides the street between us.
His crash helmet is whiter in the shade.
It is like a bull ring as they say it is just before the
fighting.
I cannot back down. I am there.
Everything holds me back.
I am in danger of disappearing into the sunny dust.
My levis bake and my T shirt sweats.
My cigarette makes my eyes burn.
But I don't dare drop it.
Who made him my enemy?
Prince of coolness. King of fear.
Why do I lean here waiting?
Why does he lounge there watching?
I am becoming sunlight.
My hair is on fire. My boots run like tar.
I am hung-up by the bright air.
Something breaks through all of a sudden,
And he blasts off, quick as a craver,
Smug in his power; watching me watch.
- Ralph Pomeroy
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