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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Max, heart has nowt to do with it.You mess up the street.They throw you in a dumpster.You end up in a landfill.....Whats the problem? ...... Respectfully Sid John.