So proud, so proud, so proud. We have discussions, respectfully, regarding glocks, lock ups, and administration. Ways, how’s, why’s. I remember when he wanted to join the Marines. Fine, and I’ll be in the Peace corp. You couldn’t go a day without make-up, he said. Auxiliary police. Something secret. Security.
On the eleventh evening the sky was quiet. His sister walked to buy a can of pop. He was at her heels, protecting. I was about to tell him, heal, it’s alright, but stopped. That’s who he is. He wears badges. And I don’t understand where he got the guts. His heart that’s bigger than his own.
He owns up. He shuts them up. Sizes their eyes in metres. And I see. He’s respectfully, professional. They messed up, they know. And now, taking pulses. Blood. Pages of protocol, procedures. And all I can advise is mints. It helps. Tells about running down halls, calls for help, blown vessels ending. Sending into burning buildings, prison walls, emergency’s. Proudly called.