Plateless

My front license plate is missing. Not just missing, it's gone. Stolen. It happened in Brooklyn. Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Kids from nowhere, everywhere. Cops, too. No one can see. A hood is still a hood. And my bumper is totaly f*cked. The rest of the car, intact. I filed a report. It took longer than necessary. Precincts are slow. Clerks, slower. The female officer handling my case, she was cool. She had blue-gray eyes. They were the size of marbles. Caramel skin. A diamond ring. She took down two perps. Perps is short for perpetrators. Hit one with a club. The other, smashed his head against the pavement. Cuffed'em. She was tough. Alone. Blue-gray eyes like marbles. Her rotator cuff is f*cked though. F*cked Like my bumper. That's why she sits behind a desk. Sean Bell is not so innocent. People don't know. She said so. Rap sheets and a gun. But 30 shots is f*cked up, too. Everything is. My back plate is still there. That's all I know. Not for long. I'll be handing it in. A waiting room. For my number. Plateless. Alone.