A Prodigy
The kid was a prodigy,
loved walking his beat,
he was the kind of cop
the department wanted
out on the street,
he was hard to stop,
and he would care,
he was also smart, honest and fair,
he wasn’t just a policeman,
citizens considered him a friend,
and all that came to an end,
then the drama,
the ambulance sped quickly
to the hospital’s shock trauma,
they found him face down
on the street,
two blocks from his beat,
a race against time
had just turned up the heat,
he was lost in a trance,
survival was only a 5 percent chance,
his life plunging into darkness,
as spirits would dance,
he was a bloody pulp,
and it started at his face,
it was a sight no one could erase,
an angel would cry,
the prodigy had to die,
he would suffer severe brain damage
if he would survive,
then his young wife would arrive,
he got shot, but she would suffer most,
followed by a parade of police ghosts,
wearing white hats and gold trim,
remembering when their survival was thin,
their outlook, grim, dim,
only darkness with no lights,
then a Catholic priest entered
to offer last rites.
© 2012 Frank Atanacio