A NYC undercover cop,
twenty-something, long hair,
“like 21 Jump Street,”
he says with a smirk
laughs at my breaking the law
underage by a year.
Mr. Undercover is street smart
starts most conversations
“Not for nothin’ . . .”
One day at his apartment,
he shows off his “buddies,”
Smith and Wesson,
asks if I want to hold his pistol
like I’m supposed to be impressed
so I pretend to be,
although it’s mild compared to the rifle
I learned to shoot in safety ed class back home.
That gun knocked me two steps backward
with its violent kick against my shoulder,
like it had a mind of its own.
My Undercover Boyfriend
loves the Ramones
the licorice zing of Sambuca shots
and soon, reportedly, me.
He tells wild stories
about being on the job
vibrates with constant intensity
and makes me feel like I’m the romantic interest
on a cop show.