in for
questioning at the police
station.
i'm a suspect for a crime
i didn't do.
they set me down
in a cold
chair
in a small cinder block
room.
there's a bright light
above,
as the fat detective
sits across
the table,
tapping his fountain
pen.
he pushes a coke towards me
and a sandwich,
which i open
up and begin to eat.
cold cuts on an Italian
roll.
chips? i ask him.
no, he says. sorry. no chips.
so where were you on the night
of Friday the sixteenth?
he asks.
i think for a moment,
taking a pickle out of the sandwich.
hmm.
where was i?
i don't know. i'm not sure, but i'm
guilty, i'm guilty i tell him,
wiping mayonnaise
off my cheek.
he scratches his
head.
but we didn't tell you what
the crime was.
it doesn't matter, i tell him.
i hate my job,
my home life
is miserable, my wife
is cheating on
me and my old dog
died last week.
my kids are covered in tattoos
and they love
Bernie Sanders and AOC.
put me in the jump, i tell him,
throw away
the key.
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