Friday 30 November 2012

#75 - The Police

A surfeit of jurisprudence:
stunned magistrates pop
like woodlice put to matches.

The local constabulary turn helmets upward
to catch drips from melting infrastructure;
police whistles wilt between lips
and stretch like hot toffee.

Prisons pool round the ankles of wardens;
miscreants caper like children.
Some wander lost, hunting for cages -
squat behind railings,
                   grounded at last.

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