Frank’s passed out in a puddle
and a pile of dog shit.
He’s not drunk.
He has cancer and seizures.
It’s 37 degrees
with deepening fog.
Last time I found him,
he was vomiting
blood and bile for an hour.
Frank. You all right?
Frank!
Frank! Did you fall?
He jerks awake.
“Huh.. Who?
Are you the police?”
Yup.
“Gunny, reporting for duty, sir.”
He raises his arm
for a fist bump.
I knock knuckles.
He tries to rise.
His legs don’t work.
His legs should work.
My cover calls
for Code 3 medical.
Frank fights to stand.
Frank lie still.
Your legs aren’t working for a reason.
Don’t make it worse.
He tries anyways.
“I’m stubborn, sir, and I don’t
like lying in dog shit!”
I pull him out of the pile,
find his glasses, sit him up,
and wait for medical.
