The cops come in on twinkletoe,
in dickies and bad hats, their sidecars
limply idling. They slink sidewise with lowly
simpers, the cops and their bagel foreheads
and snowy disasters, plump in starchy
regalia and loosely waddling. There are
all breeds of cops: shaggy and muffy cops,
bright sleek mean cops, cops with weasels
down below, and cops of normal squalor.
The only cops I like are wrinkly cops, all
done up in tight panties. Then there are
the hulky burrito cops, the filigree mango
cops, the cops that love the words “sin” and
”sin.” They police a city with needles, say
rawwr and grr and cannot keep things
down. These are the cops who finger
nozzles muttering “rue” and “rue” and
“rue.” They are real lulus in wiry tutus.
Green bald cops. Murky annihilation cops.
Liminal space cops in the gap between
the jeweled dust and the other jeweled
dust. There are striped and spotted cops,
idly scribbling marginalia on the snow.
Overcome by a wave cops, the cops struggle
through the cops and find more cops
inside their pyramidal beards.

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