Another Poem from the Probation Office
It has occurred to me
that I’ve written more poems
in a probation office
than any other American poet.
Did I just call myself a poet?
First time for that.
First time for everything
in a probation office.
Why does the probation office
compel the poem
and not the essay or editorial?
The screenplay or short story?
I think it’s because
I can’t help notice
the staccato of nothingness
that happens in the room.
I wrote another poem this morning:
Probation Office 8-28-17
The air conditioner conditions
The Coke machine hums
The gray carpet carpets.
I sit down next to a man.
He says:
“I went to jail for three days,
for drinking on my birthday.”
That’s a country song right there.
I am surrounded by country songs in here.
Am I one?
We wait, Waiting For The Man.
That is not a country song.
A young woman walks in
wearing a bra and jean shorts.
“Bubba” is tattooed on her right thigh.
She sits down and fills out forms.
The man brings up the Green River killer.
The Green River killer!
I make a note of it.
He just gave me a great tip
for my new detective novel!
I tell him that.
He shakes with joy.
He reads the newspaper,
the police log.
There he is.
He gives a little laugh.
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