The Real Evidence

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No cop cannot be charmed
by the unexplaining unrepentant killer.
A nudge a wink and they arrest the fool
next door (they like a good joke
when the mood is on them),
and you’re sipping hot chocolate in bed,
happy, gun now hot now cold under
the covers with you, tut-tutting
with the neighbours in the morning,
thinking next time you might call
the ambulance yourself, tell them
not to hurry, don’t bother,
though that might give the game away.
Though nothing seems to give the game away.
Something must be written over you
though no one blinks.
Someone somewhere, not an ordinary cop,
must have all the evidence already, the real evidence,
must be waiting with the pictures
and the recordings of conversations and the traces of you
on objects, you weren’t so careful,
must have watched you all these years
when you fooled the others, who had it coming,
as do you of course, as does he no doubt,
though he’ll laugh politely
when you say you need some time to think,
unworried, decorous, implacable, he’ll know what to do.
Always already on his way
to collecting you.

 


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