I never got to where I was
driving that night.
I drew two 15’s on the breath
and they put the cuffs
on me
and I was in their back seat
for a ride to the drunktank at
150 N. Los Angeles,street,
Parker Center.

“what’s your occupation?”
the one not driving asked

“I’m a writer,” I answered.

“you sure don’t look like a
writer to me,” said the

“oh, I’m famous,” I

“never heard of your name,”
he said.

“then we’re even,” I answered.

they parked, got me out and
walked me up the ramp.

“you sure don’t look like a
writer,” the same cop

inside they took the cuffs
I guess they were right:
I wasn’t famous
but I wasn’t sure
what a writer should
look like.
but I knew what cops
looked like.
they were cops
and they were famous
all over the

in the drunk tank
it was the same:
one toilet without a lid
and one pay
telephone, both
being used.