I donít write political poems
because they tend to lack
I read poetry for.
But sometimes I think about all
the officers who killed
without due cause,
just as Chauvin killed Floyd,
or worse, but did so far
from videophones and CCTV.
I picture them in packed
cop bars, long out of uniform
and working some less vaunted job,
but still with elbows on the bar
and bottles in their hands.
Bemoaning their lot,
as if their lots
were those that had been dug too soon.
And comforted by once-colleagues
who tell them that respect for cops
is hard to come by now.
The barís TV recounting how
each drunk, homeless, depressed,
or just young, poor, and black victim
reportedly cried and begged for his life.
Or maybe theyíre still officers,
and laughing with retirees.
This poem has been about police
and built around the George Floyd case,
but authority figures from all industries
are whom I sometimes think about,
even though I donít write political poems.