bare [h.s.]

Neighborhood Watch

Dad comes in the door around ten
with bags under his eyes and
no pep in his step.
"Another rough night?" I ask,
peering over the couch.

"Ah yes, another grueling night
as neighborhood watch.
The vicious Mrs. Holland was walking her dog way too close to the street,
an eight year old ran away
from home because
he didn't want broccoli,
and, get this,
I dropped my flashlight."

"Oh no! Not the flashlight!" I dramatically say, resting my hand on my forehead.

"Sadly, it's true. Lost the batteries in the grass," he ruffles my hair
and mumbles, "smart ass."

"So, when do you get to shoot people?" My brother asks.

"And arrest bad guys?" I chime in,
and Dad plops down on the couch beside me, staring at his hands.

"Hopefully soon. I didn't become a cop for this," he gestures toward his broken flashlight
and my brother says the most inspirational thing
since Gandhi himself,

"It's okay, Dad. We all lose our batteries sometimes."