Old Trench Coat short arms me 
on the Boulevard, where I swear
I’m making nice.
It’s fall, the light drops early
the way it does
this time of year in Queens, 
but his badge gleams
same as he means it.
Tells me I look like the guy 
out jacking radios on Jewel.
I tell him I can’t break into song
much less know how to do a car.
Look, he’s heard it all before—
says they got the guy they want,
but maybe I wanna earn a buck,
maybe learn some a what 
I already don’t know.
Almost calls me “College Boy.”
 
I get to the station on Yellowstone,
find a lot of mokes who look like me—
hairy, nervous, cracking wise.
Wipe the smiles off your face,
a cop not kindly says,
Stare straight ahead
you won’t get hurt—
the way the lights can blind.
And leave that three-spot free.
We stand straight, march in—
it’s plenty warm. 
We think:  What if
it’s me who’s fingered by some dame
can’t find her radio?
Just like that Kafka guy
who’s still doing time.
 
Then cops bring in 
another New York Jew,
who looks like me,
and him, and that one, too. 
They uncuff the guy 
like a dirty word. 
He’s number three and  
don’t give a shit
who we are, what got us here.  
Done it all before,
knows how to hold himself, 
be cool, not cold. You know,
smoke, but not smoking—
We stand like he stands;
he breathes, then we breathe
 
Turns out it’s open, shut;
the cops come in 
to take us out, slap the cuffs
back on three, drag him gone.
Never looks back, not once;
no shame, no pride—
I liked that guy.
 
You boys did great.
Can all go home.
The check it’s in the mail.
Couple a cops hanging around
act like this is funny.  
We laugh too. 
They hand us each 
a twenty—done;
we stand outside, 
got nowhere to go;
don’t say goodbye.
It’s hardly dark already.