The Long Arm Of The Law Poem by Max Reif

Wherever there are rules,
which is to say everywhere,
gradations of warnings and penalties
lead to a certain point

when the arm of force comes down
like a mechanical thing —
like one of those boxing gloves
shooting out from a metal grid.

A boy in the preschool play yard
who refuses to put on his shoes
when the Barefoot Flag's not up
is the same as a guy on the street
who refuses to move on
when the cops say move.

Polite admonishments come first,
then more serious ones,
an ultimatum and finally
a lift-and-carry
over screams.

The arm of the law
carries out impersonal orders.
It's an arm not connected to a heart.