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Just the most unlikely man to ever be called Friday.
Monday, maybe, or Wednesday, or Sunday
so long as Sunday meant jacket and tie,
church in the morning, second pew,
Latin, anyone's confession but his own.
Jack Webb, from the city, Los Angeles,
carrying badge number 714, so dead pan
not even Dan Akroyd could pull it off,
taking his coffee simply black.
No one cares anymore if the stories are true.
No one cares if the names have been changed.
No one tries to protect the innocent.
Where are you Joe Friday when we need you?
All we want are the facts.
© by Scott Owens.
Used with the author's permission.
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Scott Owens is the author of 20 collections of poetry and the recipient of numerous awards. Professor of Poetry at Lenoir Rhyne University and former editor of two poetry journals, he is the founder of Poetry Hickory, a monthly reading series. Scott's newest collection is 'Round Here: Images from and Near Catawba County. He lives in Hickory, North Carolina, where he owns and operates Taste Full Beans Coffeehouse and Gallery.Learn more about Scott here.
   
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Joe Sottile:
Yes, this poem is a gem. I remember that Dragnet Days, while growing up on Long Island. I almost remember meeting my hero, Hopalong Cassidy.
Posted 01/17/2011 11:26 AM
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dotief@comcast.net:
Love it! What I wouldn't give for the unadorned facts!
Posted 01/17/2011 08:18 AM
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Gary Busha:
An excellent, dead-pan poem. This one hit a chord with me. Thanks.
Posted 01/17/2011 05:33 AM
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