Lunch Date with Cops

Dodgy glances in a Mexican Deli.I eat here a lot,And I know you’re not from around here.From your torn up pant cuffs to the shiney badge on your chest.Three cops in low conversation my ears only piece patchwork of.

Messages from mistresses,Colors of curtains,Rented hotel rooms with the missus.Did you hear the latest in this case?

I missed most of it as my eyes shift from my burrito to their guns.The same kind issued that killed Folden.Now, I know guns don’t kill people,But Police do.What could I do to make them want to shoot me?Because by their glances—and the way weed wafts off my skin—I may be under suspicion.

All three men, like jocks at a lunch table.One of these things are not like the other,And I never remember seeing you here.One of these things are not like the other,Like who needs a glock to accompany them to lunch?

Even after the Sheriff walked in,Settled with a meal at another table,The men yelled back and forth about apprehending scum with meth pipes;Isn’t this a HIPPA violation?Or fuck the addict because he got off on a technicality?The gun glaring at me halfway through my burrito.

A congratulatory cheer on the sheriffs re-election.I voted for the woman because of Folden.Even if one’s sick, an addict, or mentally disabled,We don’t calm an episode with fear and lead.

I bussed my own table,Retreated to my Honda I parked next to the police cruiser.Taking a drag of THC behind the wheel,Recollecting the felonies I walked away from without police detection.Maybe my lunch date with cops was just karmic justiceFor the lady I almost t-boned today,Because I ran a red light, cleaning up my own vomit.