July 10, 2006

Cub reporter on the Eisenhower

The Ike is a parking lot. Sipping coffee and listening to the latest out of Baghdad on WBEZ, I adjust my tie in the rear-view mirror. Where was the warning? Adulthood may be closer than it appears. A week ago I was watching Law & Order on my parents' couch all afternoon, making my way a few pages at a time through a Richard Powers novel I picked up at the used bookstore in Champaign. Now someone is paying me to write. To put words on the page. Words from press releases and from the mouth of a congenial, white-haired assistant police chief. They're paying me enough to buy a used Mercury with my first paycheck. I'm writing something and getting paid for it. Fulfilling the stock answer I gave to the stock question from every friend and relative for the last five years. That outweighs the nine to five schedule and the fluorescent light. There's poetry in the police blotter. I know there is, there has to be.
Posted by dpetrella at July 10, 2006 6:27 PM | TrackBack

Once again, like the earlier "Face," this is a prose poem, so the margins aren't exactly like they'd be on the page. But this gives you some idea.

Posted by: d.f. at July 10, 2006 6:29 PM

there's poetry in the police blotter if the criminal is stealing from the library!

haha sorry i'm an ass

Posted by: jen at July 10, 2006 11:20 PM

Haha, that was actually pretty good.

Posted by: Dan Petrella at July 11, 2006 9:10 AM
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