The Rancor of Gulls

The Rancor of Gulls

In a foothill
town east of
Grandfather,
she clocked in
as a police officer
for ten years,
putting bacon on the table
for two hungry boys
and a hot, hairy
mutt named
Jake.
From 12 to 12
she combed the rabid streets
in search of men
like their father--
drugged broke
savages.
She'd crack their heads,
and cuff their hands,
dragging them to prison
before facing the Judge.
As if she were an angel
reckoning scales
for the women
of the world,
the suffering servants
who bore
and raised
bastards.
She was tough,
shrewd,
and ruthless
with money
because she had to be.
Jeans, sneakers,
and Nintendos
don't come cheap
for the ungrateful
sons of Adam.

She'd just made sergeant
when a brazen
rookie held her to
the wall,
stiff/powerless
and cursing.
He took her autonomy,
that preserve
from men
she had been husbanding
for a mate.
He left her in a pile
beneath the glass
ceiling
of an elevator floor
weeping bitter Athenian tears,
and exited triumphant,
his dominance
intact.
For his protection and service,
the powers that were
granted him lieutenant's
bars and
a place over our
heroine.

So instead of giving in,
to the tides of male tempest,
she gathered data,
on the force
organizing Eve's
revenge.
The FBI was enamored,
of the evidence she presented
and awarded her
a pension.
Prison waited
for his Lordship,
pink slips for all his vassals.

But her honor had been tarnished,
that proud armor,
she'd so humbly strove
to polish.
So she met Mr. Lieutenant,
behind his new commission
at a grocer's.
She brought her billy stick
and some mace,
blinded
brained him
and broke his legs,
left him whimpering in a pile
weeping bitter,
gelded tears.

Now she sells Real Estate to scoundrels,
beach lots for fat
retired executives.
She has a small cottage
near the pier
where Jake rests
beneath sand
and salt.
Her sons come once a year,
to pay homage to their Queen,
towing strollers and
doting wives,
they soak up sun,
and air their triumphs.
She sits between them in white wicker,
her diamond crusted hand
curled round sweet tea,
her billy stick
above the mantle,
the rancor of gulls against surf,
fleeing the healing of the
sea.