Easter Sunday Massacree

by Pa Rock
Desperado

Sometimes life comes at you in the rear view mirror,
Lights flashing,
Rending a rip through an otherwise beautiful morning.

Pulling over,
Curiosity morphs into panic
As the words on the police cruiser come into view:
Maricopa County Sheriff's Office!

Had it been really necessary
That I blogged unkindly of Sheriff Joe Arpaio?
Did my disdain of Sheriff Joe and Candy Andy Thomas
Truly merit going out over the Internet
With my name attached?

What had I been thinking?

"Stay in the vehicle, sir!"
Loose translation:
I am about to be wearing pink underwear
And living in the bowels of Joe's canvas gulag!

The young deputy approached with his gun holstered,
A very good sign.

Did I realize that my taillights were out, both of them?

Fuse or ruse, I didn't care,
Just let me outlive my debt,
And long enough to know all of my grandchildren!

And there were some other issues, he noted
As he took my paperwork back to his car.

Okay, I'm not going to die,
At least not in a bank parking lot on Litchfield Road.
And I can probably survive tent city
(Although several have not.)

The courteous deputy called in all of my information
And came to the conclusion that I wasn't Clyde Barrow.
He let me go with a warning
When I stammered apologies
And intent to correct my wicked ways.

Joe will aways be Joe,
But at least one of his deputies
Is flowering into a lawman,
A real one,
With a gun, a badge and a heart.

I was lucky to have encountered a reasonable man,
And fortunate that my name was not Gonzales or Lopez.