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Poems for the People   -  Poems by the People

About the Poem

This was written as a sort of tribute to the old cops; the ones who never made detective or moved up the ranks. The cops who find themselves answering calls that maybe they shouldn't be answering anymore. But the pension is still a few years away . . .

A Few Visitor Comments

Abbi
I'm the daughter of a police officer, and I would like to thank you for understanding what it's really like. Most people I know don't bother to comprehend what kind of situations that cops face every night, especially in a small town where the closest back-up could be ten minutes away. Thanks.
Denise
I liked your poem very much. I here what you are saying in that poem. You used very good words and expressed your sef very good too. I wish the world would not have bad problems like it does.
Bobbi
Wonderful! too bad this occurance happens everyday.
Hew
a lot of the poems here i just scan through and dont bother to read completly. yours had me reading till the end, it was a story i had to know the ending to. keep writing, definitly.

Old Cop

Itís 3:00 A. M. , my thirteenth call
A place called Crazy Joeís Pool Hall
A fight, a knife, a man is down
It happens in this part of town

My backupís cominí from the jail
Was bookiní in a drunk female
And me, Iím riding all alone
When I arrive Iím on my own

Iím fairly close, about a mile
If I was smart Iíd stall awhile
But as I always do with fights
I come in quiet - cut the lights

A crowd is huddled round the door
Near all of them Iíve popped before
Ainít one of them cares much for me
Most hopiní Iíll go down, you see

I open up the door a crack
Some wanted guys run out the back
I see the young dude lying there
With blood just pouriní from his hair

I kneel beside him Ėfind heís dead
Just then a pool cue cracked my head
Fell in the blood to my alarm
The second blow breaks my left arm

The pool hall turns from red to black
I struggle to get off my back
Canít count Ďem all, my visionís blurred
Whatís happening? My thoughts are slurred

I manage to get on my knees
I try to focus Ė then I freeze
I see now that thereís only one
The problem is heís got my gun

He shoves the gun inside his belt
Then grabs the cue with which he dealt
The blows that brought me to the ground
And swings again, a swooshing sound

He misses and Iím on my feet
Iím backing up, the wall I meet
Heís pointing at me with a grin
My arm boneís stickiní through the skin

Heís reckless now - he comes too near
So big and drunk he has no fear
The years have slowed my uppercut
The first one catches in his gut

Thereís vomit drippiní from his chin
He comes for me, I swing again
This time I feel him lift a bit
My shoulderís wet with bloody spit

I kick his knee and hear it snap
He crumbles, reaches for his lap
But I reach too, this time I won
I manage to retrieve my gun

He dares me shoot and tries to stand
I say I will and call his hand
I guess he sees it in my eyes
And knows Iíll kill him if he tries

I put my back against the wall
And hear my backupís siren call
A minute and heís through the door
By then we both are on the floor

The judge he gives him eighty years
The dude looks back at me and sneers
Iíll kill you cop, when I get out
Iíll find you then, you have no doubt.

I tell him, Son, Iíll try to wait
But I donít think that itís my fate
When you get out - to be alive
Iíve been a cop since sixty- five.

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© 1999 Fred Hobbs Please respect the rights of the author and Passions in Poetry. If you would like to use this poem on your own web page, please contact the Author. Thank you.