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John Poch

A Curse on the Denton Cops, the Lot of Them

May you, on your bike patrols be slowed and toppled
by sand, and let the metaphor of time be gritty in your teeth.

May your own hand (your ticket hand) terrify you
like a hanky out of nowhere, clean and white.

May you guard the food table
outside a fiction reading in Ohio somewhere.

May your seatbelt cut you at the armpits
and at the topmost gut ripple may you itch like fire.
May each hive take the shape of a miniature Ohio.

May duct tape melt in your hands and be of no use.

May you ogle partygoers, not being one,
and may they then ignore you like an empty water pistol.

May a sick chicken peck at your shined shoe
and may your partner in ticketing say, "In Texas or just about any state,
I suspect thatís a bad omen."

May you know you are the pawn of a sad petty empire.

May you have only feminists to console you.

May you be demoted. May you bleat like a sheep in your sleep.
May you eat week old lunch meat.

May you never comprehend a poem.

May a poem never describe you
except to say your hand smells like a ticket.

John Poch teaches at Texas Tech University.  He eventually wore down the Denton Police and the irascible District Attorney, beating the traffic violation of which he and his large truck were accused, thereby heaping one more insult upon their pitiful shoulders.

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