The Unfaithful

Somewhere between satire and sadness.

On the road
home there were
sirens and they
were pin-point,
like the little dots
of light seen
far off in whiskey,
that crease at the
end & seem stars.
A congress of aid
had assembled near
the bar, of all places,
and the beacon in
Johnny Law’s hands
seemed just one
more sign of all flash.
More shift than stars.
He beckoned down
cracked roads that
I had never known,
and I indulged him,
though I stole sneaks
of at the cars that
sat suspended
on the sparkling curb.
It was a miserable
vision of the body
caught tight in the
grip of Hephaestus.
My car parked itself
and I spoke awkwardly
to the officer with the
cold light of firebrands.
“Is there any help
that I can offer, sir ?
I’m an English major.”