Riding his motorcycle, sitting up so straight and tall,
seeming so unapproachable, not like himself at all.
Charging up and down the roads in the afternoon sun,
pulling people over, writing tickets for some.
All that is known of him, seems to be hiding in his
uniform somewhere while performing his duties as a cop.
Knowing later if we should meet and talk over dinner,
we are friends, and what seems to be, doesn't matter.
His badge disappears when we meet and socialize, he is
like anyone else, a human being.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem