6:21AM

A tangerine Scion pulls into my driveway 6 minutes late. I get in the car and look the rookie over. He’s cut from the funny pages: pink-cheeked and yellow-haired, with a Dennis the Menace cowlick. His new badge gleams.

“Officer Wu at your service,” I say.

“Whup Ass Wu?”

“Only one I know. Sergeant Fagen asked me to ride in with you so we could have a talk before your first run.”

“This is a real honor.” He shows his teeth and we shake hands.

“North and Clybourn is next. Doors open on the right at North and Clybourn.”

The train starts to move. Arms tangle with arms, grabbing for something to grab. Legs tuck in, not to trip other legs. Eyes search for a safe place, avoiding contact with other eyes. I have read the same paragraph seven times. Seven times. And I’ll probably read it seven more. Monkeyfucking Dostoyevsky.

“‘Tis a present for the King,”
declared the first blind crone,
“A two-mouthed serpent, a mighty thing
to drape upon his royal throne.”

We warmed to each other
grading freshman
writing exams
in annual three-day grinds,
me admiring
her conservative dress
and reserved smile,
but also the migraines

uprooted from antiquity,
it dwells in possibility
dreaming of a vanity
it will not know –

its crowdedness unmeshing
requires scythes for threshing
to keep it from enmeshing
Corsican sheep.