[The seventh installment of the month-long poetry sequence that began on October 1st.]
"Jailbait"
Sheriff Felix Pfister
"Boss, he looks like he's having some kind of seizure!"
My panicked deputy, Clarkson, called out to me.
But when I raced into the holding cell, Stumbles Mumford
Was merely tossing on his cot, caught in some drunken nightmare.
Before I could turn around, I heard the cell door slam behind me.
"Sorry, boss," Clarkson sincerely apologized for the conning,
"But I just got word from my dad that the monster's been captured,
And I know you won't condone what the people have decided on.
Sit tight; I'll come back to get you out once the bloodletting's done."
So here I am, locked in with this stinking, snoring boozehound,
Bristling at the missed opportunity to keep the peace. To think:
I could be out there right now breaking up the mob, wantonly
Knocking heads with my nightstick, just like I'd always dreamed.
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