it's 1940, and i'm standing on the
outside of your police scene tape.
'what have we got here?' i ask the officer,
i'm not listening to the reply.
i'm rubbing something between my fingers,
crouching on the ground
trying to look busy.
trying to figure out what left you here in a chalk line.
why you aren't at my place making popcorn,
getting a blanket out of the hall closet,
telling me about your day,
giving me the chance to half-listen.
i take off my overcoat,
it's time to get to work,
my black suspenders,
my snazzy gun harness,
i'm ready to detect for you.
to sleuth to the very bottom,
to bring you back safe,
with a wool blanket on your shoulders,
and a steaming cup of coffee.
but this is a murder scene, i think:
from the number of concerned cameras,
blinking their big bulbs,
the number of times i have to say
'no comment, wait for my captain's release.'
i'm waiting for my release,
your release, something for us other than
long shifts with old documents,
glasses of gin, and fingers running over my eyes.
i'm leaning back in my chair.
i'm waiting for a lead on you.
i need a cause of death, i need a weapon in a plastic bag,
i need an arm to twist, i need something on tape,
i need to sleep in with you on a Sunday,
i need to quietly stare with a cup of foggy coffee,
i need a new job, with a better pension.