the old cruiser sat in his drive
tires as tired as time, the whole car speckled
with bird droppings from his oak

back seat still the same:
scarlet blood dried black from
the boy's brief ride

justified use of force
the grandest jury decreed; still they made him
put up his sword and shield

the sullied car part of his severance,
his Crown Vic replaced by a fat SUV, and he
replaced by his own deputy

he knew it less was a blessing
than a curse, the cruiser turned hearse
gifted to him

the men had tried it scrub it clean
but the boy he felled was eighteen; his blood
copious, stubborn, and a condign reminder

of the sheriff’s last night as the law,
of his frenzied futile attempt to save
the boy, the “deceased”  

whose last testament was scrawled
in the bowels of the car that now sat still as stone,
alone with its red written tale