Mr. Big
“So I’ve been reading about this
police sting operation that’s legal
in Canada and Australia, but not here. The ... criminal ?”
“The perp !” B corrects me and takes
a sip of her macchiato.
“Yes! Ha! Perp ! So the perp
brutally murdered his girlfriend and the cops
couldn’t pin it on him so they
sent in an undercover man who looked like a real
big-shot mafioso type ... ”
“Mmhm. Mr. Big,” B nods.
“Exactly. So Mr. Big gives the perp
a lot of important things to do, run money,
deliver packages, drive him around,
and all the while Mr. Big’s telling the perp
I can’t run things without you blah blah blah ... ”
“Mmhm. Heh.”
“Then he says to the perp, We’re taking this business
to the next level and I want you to run the show but
you gotta tell me everything you ever did
wrong ... I mean ... ”
“Idiot.”
“Can you imagine someone showing up
all of the sudden out of nowhere and saying,
You’re just the guy we’ve been looking for!
And you believe them?!”
“No, I cannot,” B snorts, and I snort.
“Hi,” I yip too quickly at a woman walking by
our bench. It’s rare—foot traffic at the end
of this long, dark, deserted hall where we’ve chosen
to chat because we’re hiding from everyone who
has, could, and will turn on us.
Source: Poetry (May 2020)