Cop preens his ‘tache. And thinks.

‘This is the one. This is the one

that brings the day job to an end;

gets me the likes and hits I want;

makes me an influencer not a sheep;

One who is followed, not a follower

of the gang. Shepherd, not member

of the flock. His heart in secret

does a little held-back Hitler salute.

He is a little man with big ideas.

“Mein Kampf,” his

deep unconscious purrs

as it is stirred by history

in feline form tapping him gently

on the shoulder, “is just begun.

Let Putsch and Blitzkrieg begin.

Let loose the dogs of war

till we are done. This Panther’s loose

and I will be the one to hunt her down.”

The pencil moustache, the pipe,

the limp, a taste for hard liqueur

and the dames, chip duly on his shoulder,

the quirks: he has all that it takes

to play the jaded private eye

or hardened pro – except, perhaps,

the thirst for justice done –

still, you can’t have it all.

Do a few suspects in, whatever

it takes. Planters of bombs.

Sowers of discontent.

Throwers of flames of passion

for a Medieval cause.

We’re sure we’ll make it lost.

No Islamierung here.

No minarets to puncture

the heavens with their wails

and try the patience of the great

good God who, become man,

trod earth to save our souls. 

*

The shrapnel always made Da

walk with a bit of a limp;

that bit of shrapnel he’s

inherited. He thinks.