About the Poem
This was written as a sort of tribute to the old cops; the ones who never made detective or moved up the ranks. The cops who find themselves answering calls that maybe they shouldn't be answering anymore. But the pension is still a few years away . . .
Old Cop |
| by Fred Hobbs |
| It’s 3:00 A. M. , my thirteenth call A place called Crazy Joe’s Pool Hall A fight, a knife, a man is down It happens in this part of town My backup’s comin’ from the jail Was bookin’ in a drunk female And me, I’m riding all alone When I arrive I’m on my own I’m fairly close, about a mile If I was smart I’d stall awhile But as I always do with fights I come in quiet - cut the lights A crowd is huddled round the door Near all of them I’ve popped before Ain’t one of them cares much for me Most hopin’ I’ll go down, you see I open up the door a crack Some wanted guys run out the back I see the young dude lying there With blood just pourin’ from his hair I kneel beside him –find he’s dead Just then a pool cue cracked my head Fell in the blood to my alarm The second blow breaks my left arm The pool hall turns from red to black I struggle to get off my back Can’t count ‘em all, my vision’s blurred What’s happening? My thoughts are slurred I manage to get on my knees I try to focus – then I freeze I see now that there’s only one The problem is he’s got my gun He shoves the gun inside his belt Then grabs the cue with which he dealt The blows that brought me to the ground And swings again, a swooshing sound He misses and I’m on my feet I’m backing up, the wall I meet He’s pointing at me with a grin My arm bone’s stickin’ through the skin He’s reckless now - he comes too near So big and drunk he has no fear The years have slowed my uppercut The first one catches in his gut There’s vomit drippin’ from his chin He comes for me, I swing again This time I feel him lift a bit My shoulder’s wet with bloody spit I kick his knee and hear it snap He crumbles, reaches for his lap But I reach too, this time I won I manage to retrieve my gun He dares me shoot and tries to stand I say I will and call his hand I guess he sees it in my eyes And knows I’ll kill him if he tries I put my back against the wall And hear my backup’s siren call A minute and he’s through the door By then we both are on the floor The judge he gives him eighty years The dude looks back at me and sneers I’ll kill you cop, when I get out I’ll find you then, you have no doubt. I tell him, Son, I’ll try to wait But I don’t think that it’s my fate When you get out - to be alive I’ve been a cop since sixty- five. |
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4 Visitor Comments
Abbi
I'm the daughter of a police officer, and I would like to thank you for understanding what it's really like. Most people I know don't bother to comprehend what kind of situations that cops face every night, especially in a small town where the closest back-up could be ten minutes away. Thanks.
Denise
I liked your poem very much. I here what you are saying in that poem. You used very good words and expressed your sef very good too. I wish the world would not have bad problems like it does.
Bobbi
Wonderful! too bad this occurance happens everyday.
Hew
a lot of the poems here i just scan through and dont bother to read completly. yours had me reading till the end, it was a story i had to know the ending to. keep writing, definitly.
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