He smiles as he approaches, the
recycled corn staining his grin,
eye color changed to brown in reverence of his last meal,
"surr" he says,
bending into my open window, as if to
hide the erection
bulging under his badge,
"d' you know how fast you wuz goin?"
he continued,
eyes ridin' the contours of
my wild afro, and
before my lips could part, he continued
"cuz we got a traffic plane clocked'chu at ninety"
smiling like his oldest boy found a wife outside his gene pool
"an' I gotsta han' you a citation"
he said,
pulling out his pad like
he was alone in the station's shower,
handing me the
white reward of his labor
listening
as his chirping radio places
traffic cops every thirty feet,
following foreigners, every
non-Nebraska plate on the road riding the shoulder,
and
as police lights follow me two hundred miles,
of grass,
and hill,
and random citations,
(I think I still have the one
for my air freshener in the glove box)
I pull over
middle fingers pointing at their traffic plane,
thanking Nebraska
for breaking my be-hymen
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