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Charles Jensen

Each black suit paces in and out the house,
ducking under yellow crime scene tape.

Stone-faced police look grave
for your benefit. Their five o'clock shadows stain
otherwise dull faces.

The thinnest cop
with his long, bony fingers
drops empty pill bottles in a bag.

His eyes
glaze over.

I sit outside the bathroom door.
My head explodes.
My hands and feet explode.

The cop does his job. The night goes mad
as a starved dog, but he'll get things done.
Someone zips you up inside a bag.

The cops file out
like stiff little quarter notes. You go last,
black bag. A long, quiet rest.

Charles Jensen

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