i’m the reporter at
an earnest conference.
in the middle, him,
the man of my dreams,
red-faced behind faint rubble of old acne scars.
officers, intent on every tremble of his lip,
offer options.
i’m mesmerised by the flat back of his head,
(the short napped seal pelt gleaming
conjures pity/contempt.
you shouldn’t have a rat tail if your hair curls.)
objectivity fails me
as my stomach boils like old chip fat.
i’m wondering,
who does he remind me of?
that niggling of journalistic instinct.
the story within the story.
in the end they let him off with a warning,
falling for the old “woman in a man’s body” ruse.
he swaggers out of the lock-up and straight
into the crotch of his waiting girlfriend.
i’m sitting on the steps of the courthouse,
making connections i’d rather not.
that restless urge for meaning.
the mother of his child loiters, and
i finally cave to her need for an interview.
she says - apologetically -
she “only had sex with him a few times.”
i write it all down in the notebook,
knowing it’ll never go to print.
who wants to read about
some white trash trickster?
anyway, my objectivity is
compromised up the ass.
there’s a reason he reminds me of
what’s-her-name’s italian ex-husband
(the guy who couldn’t shit with
someone in the next cubicle.)
me and him go way back.
in the good old days
we used to tag race together
in the concrete ring.
skidding curves with the pack,
stirring up lime, the particled skin
of our working class dust.
i was always the leveraging partner,
salvaging momentum
as we took the turns.
midway, the bastard
would always let go my hand.
i’d watch him become separate,
satisfaction making small lines
of his eyes and mouth.
he’d cut the inside corner,
gaining speed
as he shot from the water dip.
lubed, but not fast enough.
in the end he never cared he’d lost.
“a true sportsman,”
would say the commentator,
who, like everyone else, was
oblivious to the ongoing transformation.
how he’d morphed again,
this time into someone’s father,
his chest wide and curved
as a sixties tin breadbox.
and here i am,
still the reporter.
still sitting on the steps of the courthouse,
fumbling with threads that should never
make a story.
in the end i leave,
walk the trash-scudded street
saying, “ah, fuck it.
i might as well write it up.
i'll write it up,
and make the headline read,
‘his smugness was the point of it all.’”
