Thursday, June 07, 2007

Least of all you.......

You walk to the locker room, take off your jacket,
put on your tie and sigh, it's another shift in the life,
you take your seat, body armour on the chair,
coffee infront of you, you pray for your collegues to be safe and protected.

They know you're a volunteer, so they wonder why you do it,
you won't ever tell them, because it's what you keep inside,
two hours in you go to a call, it's not a lovely sight,
people could have been hurt, it's one in the tank.

On the way to the custody suite, you ask the man why,
why he had to do what he did, why he didn't just move on by,
the man doesn't answer, he just mumbles under his breath,
that it's life in general, it delt him a bad hand.

Three hours later, another two calls,
one of assistance required, another to the drunken halls,
then it's the interview, this man is not a bad man,
he has two kids, a heart that's grown cold.

He's declined a solicitor, a very big mistake,
but what you find hard to believe, he doesn't know it,
twenty minutes later, it's another life destroyed,
a moment of madness, that even you can't resolve.

You walk to the police car again wondering why, a few pints at the wrong time, if he hadn't been standing near the car,
it would have been a different ending, but in the dark and the cold,
you walk to your car, ice on the windows, a stench in the air.

You sit at the wheel turning the radio on,
suite No3 by John Sabastian Bach, sitting there thanking your Lord God, for keeping it all being safe and sound,
praising him for seeing justice done, even in this warped way of society, but most of all thanking him that you're not full time,
that fact with gratitude most of all.


At 9:15 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

That last paragraph summed it up for me. I'm also a Special, too often on weekend-lates.

The only time I listen to classical music is after those bad shifts. Sometimes I think I need it, to comfort me on my way to the safety of my home, and the warmth of my sleeping wife. As I thread my car through the dawn streets, I try not to think, of anything, when I see the blue strobes in the distance, and my ears still ring with the frantic screams, sirens and radio transmissions of the past 10 hours.

The soft, familiar tones of Bach's Air on a G string, a gentle throttle, and I'm home, safe again. Until next weekend.


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