Campus Cop
Jackson is security:
his grey-blue uniform
is almost a cop's;
the silverplated stub
of his service revolver
juts from the leather holster.
And he has that military walk:
shoulders thrown back,
gut thrust forward
stalking with intense purpose
past empty academic offices
going nowhere in particular.
He looks bigger than he is,
might have played middle-linebacker
at some small division school
where speed and hustle 
made up for size-
and he is always stalking
with intense purpose
rounding a corner,
crossing the foyer,
descending the stairs,
his mind calculating 
the shortest route
between point A and point B.
His face is fixed 
in moral outrage
at crimes yet uncommitted,
untold violations 
only of the mind;
Like the tulpa of
some all-too-scrutable 
karmic will,
he is action furious
with inaction.
I always say hello
and try to stop him.
He acknowledges with a nod,
his eyes staying for a moment
as his body stalks on,
sizing me up instinctively
for the criminal I have always been.



copyright 2001 Phoebe Claire Publishing, LLC  All rights reserved