The officer, steeped in worry, superstition and a prejudice of you-never-knows, brushes his hand across the car he approaches, flattening his palm and fingers against the taillight, leaving his image on the vehicle so it can be retrieved, a beacon, his calling card, evidence of who he is and where he was, in case anyone needs to know, proof of a moment in time, security against abduction, murder, cornfield abandonment, bullet through vest, punishment for a badge.

© Poem Fix 2013 

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