by Alan Catlin
Red-faced, standing as close
to TV as possible, shaking his
clenched fist at the screen,
former police sergeant screams
at images of young black suspect
in handcuffs, arresting officer
nearby, escorting him to squad
car, “What’s wrong with him?
Is he sick or something?
They should take his gun away
from him now. Suspend his ass
but good. No, they should have
his badge! Protocol, my ass.
The only protocol there is, is:
the only good nigger, is a dead
nigger. If I were still on the force,
me and my boys would know what
to do. Hell, there are probably
enough of us left still in the ranks
they’ll take care of business but
good. We should be talking about:
Man killed in armed confrontation,
not some 'exercised remarkable
restraint' bullshit. That asshole
will be out in a couple of years and
he’ll get another gun and someone
else will get killed. Happens all the time.
That’s why we shoot them when we can.
That cop better get his ass to the range
and remember what his weapon is for.”
Author’s note: I wrote this poem in response to recent incidents across the country involving white police officers and black “suspects”. The actual incident in my poem occurred a few years ago, and I had let it slide thinking, who would want to hear about just another racist cop? The monologue is not an exact transcription of the former police sergeant’s speech but it comes as close as I can recall. Believe me, though, the substance is the same. In the city of the poem, the police force operated for decades as the private army of the mayor, almost totally without restraint. Of note: There has been one party in charge of the city since the 19th century, and it was only after the death of the longest serving mayor in the history of the state that some restraints were applied to the police force. That was in the middle seventies. This particular officer began his career under the auspices of ”the mayor” so his attitude dies hard. I don’t believe all officers are like that. Maybe not even a lot of them are like that. I remain grateful to all the cops who saved my butt when I worked in more than one rough tavern, when I really needed help. Some of them are still counted as friends of mine. Still the fact remains: they Do exist, have always existed, and need to be stopped from existing now, and in the future.
Alan Catlin has published numerous chapbooks and full-length books of poetry and prose, the latest of which, from March Street Press, is Alien Nation.