A Poem
“Did you see that?” officer Cross asked, nodding deftly toward the window.
“What?” his younger partner turned clumsily, eyes wide with a curiosity that the years had not yet killed.
“Someone was peeking behind the curtain. He’s in there. And he knows we’re out here.”
The partner looked wildly from side to side, his mind likely running with stories he’d heard in the academy about shootouts and psychopaths. These stories were told by people not much older than him, and were often eerily similar to action movies and detective shows.
“I’m gonna kick the door in. He isn’t dangerous, but you can’t be too careful, so keep your eyes open kid,” Cross got in position and looked at his partner, who was still staring blankly at the window.
“There’ll be time for daydreaming later kid. Were you listenin’ to a word I said?” he asked gruffly, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening.
“Yeah,” the kid snapped suddenly out of his internal reenactment of Lethal Weapon and moved to side of the door.
“Alright,” Cross whispered, throwing three fingers into the air. His lips mouthed through his fingers movements.
Three. Two. One.
The moment of silence made way for a deafening crack as the door collapsed in front of the men. Cross turned immediately to point his weapon toward where he’d seen movement, while the kid followed. But there was no one standing at the window, and as Cross scanned the room, he found that there was no one here at all.
He holstered his weapon and looked at what actually was in the room.
Papers, tons of them, littered every inch of the dark space. Cross picked one up and read it. There were poems scrawled all over it, from corner to corner, front and back.
The kid gasped. “Never read anything like ‘em. What’re they doing in this guys house? Aren’t they illegal? I thought we were just here cause some neighborhood kid said this guy was strange.”
“The neighborhood kid was right,” Cross mumbled, for once in an awe that surpassed that of his partner.
Cross had read poetry before in his training, but it was mostly just sonnets, or limerick-like poems with no real substance. These poems were as free verse as free verse can possibly be, used swear words, painted graphic images, and worst of all, called for action.
Cross crumpled the paper and let it fall back to the floor, but for a while the words seemed to float in front of him.
He blinked and saw the devil words scrawled on the inside of his eye lids. His partner gave him a small push.
“Shouldn’t we probably get some backup… this isn’t what we thought we were…” he was interrupted by the sound of movement. It was a frantic, hurried movement coming from upstairs. Cross recognized from just the sound what the movement was. He was hiding something.
“Come on!” Cross yelled out, running up the staircase, his hand falling for his weapon once again.
The partner starred for a second, and then followed, his lanky legs carrying him somewhat slower, despite his youth.
Cross came to a closed door, where he heard the sound coming from. He pointed his gun and kicked in the door. A pale, scrawny man, not much older than his partner looked up from the desk drawer he was quickly pushing shut. His hair was wild and tangled, a deep brown that made the pale of his face even more evident. His clothing had colors that Cross couldn’t remember ever seeing before in his life, and it took him a minute to pull his eyes off of them. This was the poet. And he looked terrified.
“Please…” he mumbled. Cross thought his voice sounded too soft and calm for the man to be any danger. He didn’t move his gun.
“Shut up. What were you just hiding?”
“I…”
The partner reached Cross and looked at the poet he had cornered. Tears were beginning to stream down his cheeks, and his paleness grew red with stress and fear.
“What were you hiding?” Cross shouted again, realizing his own eyes were beginning to water. He ignored this, and blinked the water away.
“Answer him,” his partner muttered, clearly shocked watching as a grown man completely broke into nothing in front of him.
“My heart!” the poet suddenly shrieked to the ceiling and the clouds, his entire body shaking with his sob.
“What do you mean?” Cross asked, still blinking excessively.
“I’ve hidden my heart. I’ve hidden my soul. I’ve hidden my entire being away in this desk drawer, in this house. I’ve hidden it for years and I am done hiding it. I am done!” the poet’s face grew more and more red and he began to stand. Cross adjusted his grip on his gun, which was beginning to slip with the sweat on his hands. The partner just stood mindlessly, for different reasons than he had before.
The poet lunged at them, and Cross squeezed the trigger. As he did, his entire body jolted through time to the first time he’d killed. He closed his eyes, not wanting to witness his own destructiveness, but there it was worse. On his eyelids lines of poetry still lived, practically screaming at him. He opened his eyes and forgot to blink back the moisture. He didn’t understand why, but tears were running down his rough cheeks.
The poet fell to the floor, the blues and greens and yellows of his beautiful sweater taking on nothing but the deep red of destruction.
Destruction. Cross’ mind ran. Was destruction all he was? Was it all he would ever be?
The partner walked away and vomited, the puke coating several papers, which he now realized covered every floor and surface in the entire house.
Cross bent down and picked up one of the papers. It didn’t matter what it said. He stuffed it into his pocket and turned toward his partner, regaining his self.
“This’ll be a shit ton of paperwork,” Cross called, “But it’ll have been worth it.”
“What?” his younger partner turned clumsily, eyes wide with a curiosity that the years had not yet killed.
“Someone was peeking behind the curtain. He’s in there. And he knows we’re out here.”
The partner looked wildly from side to side, his mind likely running with stories he’d heard in the academy about shootouts and psychopaths. These stories were told by people not much older than him, and were often eerily similar to action movies and detective shows.
“I’m gonna kick the door in. He isn’t dangerous, but you can’t be too careful, so keep your eyes open kid,” Cross got in position and looked at his partner, who was still staring blankly at the window.
“There’ll be time for daydreaming later kid. Were you listenin’ to a word I said?” he asked gruffly, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening.
“Yeah,” the kid snapped suddenly out of his internal reenactment of Lethal Weapon and moved to side of the door.
“Alright,” Cross whispered, throwing three fingers into the air. His lips mouthed through his fingers movements.
Three. Two. One.
The moment of silence made way for a deafening crack as the door collapsed in front of the men. Cross turned immediately to point his weapon toward where he’d seen movement, while the kid followed. But there was no one standing at the window, and as Cross scanned the room, he found that there was no one here at all.
He holstered his weapon and looked at what actually was in the room.
Papers, tons of them, littered every inch of the dark space. Cross picked one up and read it. There were poems scrawled all over it, from corner to corner, front and back.
The kid gasped. “Never read anything like ‘em. What’re they doing in this guys house? Aren’t they illegal? I thought we were just here cause some neighborhood kid said this guy was strange.”
“The neighborhood kid was right,” Cross mumbled, for once in an awe that surpassed that of his partner.
Cross had read poetry before in his training, but it was mostly just sonnets, or limerick-like poems with no real substance. These poems were as free verse as free verse can possibly be, used swear words, painted graphic images, and worst of all, called for action.
Cross crumpled the paper and let it fall back to the floor, but for a while the words seemed to float in front of him.
He blinked and saw the devil words scrawled on the inside of his eye lids. His partner gave him a small push.
“Shouldn’t we probably get some backup… this isn’t what we thought we were…” he was interrupted by the sound of movement. It was a frantic, hurried movement coming from upstairs. Cross recognized from just the sound what the movement was. He was hiding something.
“Come on!” Cross yelled out, running up the staircase, his hand falling for his weapon once again.
The partner starred for a second, and then followed, his lanky legs carrying him somewhat slower, despite his youth.
Cross came to a closed door, where he heard the sound coming from. He pointed his gun and kicked in the door. A pale, scrawny man, not much older than his partner looked up from the desk drawer he was quickly pushing shut. His hair was wild and tangled, a deep brown that made the pale of his face even more evident. His clothing had colors that Cross couldn’t remember ever seeing before in his life, and it took him a minute to pull his eyes off of them. This was the poet. And he looked terrified.
“Please…” he mumbled. Cross thought his voice sounded too soft and calm for the man to be any danger. He didn’t move his gun.
“Shut up. What were you just hiding?”
“I…”
The partner reached Cross and looked at the poet he had cornered. Tears were beginning to stream down his cheeks, and his paleness grew red with stress and fear.
“What were you hiding?” Cross shouted again, realizing his own eyes were beginning to water. He ignored this, and blinked the water away.
“Answer him,” his partner muttered, clearly shocked watching as a grown man completely broke into nothing in front of him.
“My heart!” the poet suddenly shrieked to the ceiling and the clouds, his entire body shaking with his sob.
“What do you mean?” Cross asked, still blinking excessively.
“I’ve hidden my heart. I’ve hidden my soul. I’ve hidden my entire being away in this desk drawer, in this house. I’ve hidden it for years and I am done hiding it. I am done!” the poet’s face grew more and more red and he began to stand. Cross adjusted his grip on his gun, which was beginning to slip with the sweat on his hands. The partner just stood mindlessly, for different reasons than he had before.
The poet lunged at them, and Cross squeezed the trigger. As he did, his entire body jolted through time to the first time he’d killed. He closed his eyes, not wanting to witness his own destructiveness, but there it was worse. On his eyelids lines of poetry still lived, practically screaming at him. He opened his eyes and forgot to blink back the moisture. He didn’t understand why, but tears were running down his rough cheeks.
The poet fell to the floor, the blues and greens and yellows of his beautiful sweater taking on nothing but the deep red of destruction.
Destruction. Cross’ mind ran. Was destruction all he was? Was it all he would ever be?
The partner walked away and vomited, the puke coating several papers, which he now realized covered every floor and surface in the entire house.
Cross bent down and picked up one of the papers. It didn’t matter what it said. He stuffed it into his pocket and turned toward his partner, regaining his self.
“This’ll be a shit ton of paperwork,” Cross called, “But it’ll have been worth it.”
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