Like the sound of a shattering beer bottle
in a deaf man's ear,
it's an eerie feeling getting pulled up from the sidewalk
by handcuffs on your wrists behind your back.

You understand the pain of the arthritic cripple
in the crosswalk
grasping for the cane he's dropped,
as they kick you in the seat of the pants
to get you to walk over to the police car.

It's that rush-all-over-again-after-she's-left,
like the killing itself, when they push your head down,
under the door frame, into the jack-in-the-box.

The orgasmix of thrills and blood
damming up in your veins,
it's like nothing else,
except when you loose the cuffs like no one's
supposed to be able to
and sit there in the car waiting for the door to open.