Tazer’s paperwork.
I pull it out, don’t do nothing, paperwork.
I fire it, more.
I hit the sumbitch, reams.
Court dates.
My ass in jail.
If he has a heart condition,
and if he dies—
don’t use no Tazer.
Mace the same.
Hydraulic needle pierces that cornea,
permanent problems.
Potential for positional asphyxiation.
Adds up to a welfare shitshow,
and me on the wrong side of five to ten.
Baton’s the shit.
Hit a leg just hard enough.
Don’t break it.
Put him down.
Slow him.
Hobble him.
Have a chuckle.
Wait for police
while you show your smile.
The convenience store-cum-Laundromat on
6th and Cormorant was just not the right place
for a five-finger discount. The attendant was the size
of a refrigerated truck and moved a good deal quicker.
I’d just witnessed him running down a thief, tackling him,
tumbling end over end like comical hoop snakes intertwined.
I kept looking at the recoveries in his hands.
Of all the things to steal.
Gummy worms.
A Mountain Dew.
And the thief well over fifty.
Guess he had a real sweet tooth.
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