Jonathan Moody: Poet of the Week
Paranoid
I’ve passed down my fear
of the police to my baby boy
who always sleeps, frozen,
with his hands in the air.
Corralling around dancing
clouds, Lil’ Bo Peep’s
sheep wag their badges
behind them.
Avery Langston’s
funky cold congestion,
probable cause
he’s trafficking crack.
Lil’ Bo Peep squeezes
air out of a blue bulb
& places the tip
at my son’s left nostril;
the air coming back
pulls out nothing
but encrypted audio files
of my kisses goodnight.