He weaved throughout concrete aisles
Collar up
Chin down
Avoiding bodies
Ravaging through
Piles and piles
different sizes.
I can vividly recall
The broad-shouldered
Black coat, he pulled out of the rack.
Analyzing the quality
Glancing slightly at the tag,
Slightly enough to where he thought I didn’t see.
He held it up against his chest
Nodded
And handed over the ironed dollars in his pockets.
He watched her closely,
The cashier,
Ensuring the coupons were valid.
We walk out,



He wore it daily
Guaranteeing every dollar would be put to use.
He wore it over his church clothes,
And his bulletproof vest.
Pulled down the sleeves to hide his tattoos for job interviews,
And pulled them up to show drunken women his “story” after his eighth can of Budweiser.


He wrote his will on a  Shoney’s  paper napkin
Giving me everything, including the coat and the map of its story.
He described the location of every hole, every tear, and every patch
With a story attached to each imperfection

I remember one patch vividly
It covered the tear of a barbed wire fence, as he ran from the “bad men”


When you grow up in the sector I grew up in
You have different fears than most children
Most kids are scared of the dark or of clowns
We were scared of the “bad men”
The men our fathers told us about
And our fathers were never wrong

The men that prowled the streets
Eyes of lead
Spewing bullets from their tongues when they spoke


Flaunting their colors,
Badges,
And Entitlement,
With every heavy footstep

They were the men with power
hearts filled with ammo


They were my father’s only weakness
Only fear

They were the police…

20 years later I stand beside them
Everyday defending the people just like me

every morning I grab my holster and my badge
I stare at the coat hanging by the door
And understand the error of his ways
The police are not the enemy
And I am not him

The coat collects dust.