The Small Hours

A joyrider rips up Lockland.

It takes barely five minutes   

for a precinct helicopter

to dip and swivel over lawns   

and two opposing lines of cars   

parked innocently snug to the sidewalk.   

They haven't found him yet.   

Every couple of minutes or so,   

my blind soaks in outrageous light   

and the helicopter hauls its drone

and feud all over my backyard.   

There's a fan over my bed

that says similar things in summer:

adages, reproach and rhetoric.

I talk too much; give far too much away.

In mumbling my company, I reckon on

a twofold payoff: some echo;

being found out, consequence.

I lie low. Minutes swell.   

He must be out there somewhere,   

lights switched off, crouched and bundled,

foot within an inch of the get-go.   

I pull the comforter up over my ears,

count to forty-two, then start over.   

I'm trying, trying hard, to hold my breath.