The Poetry Police

They had a warrant.

I was suspected of lying,

not only in the poems,

but about the poems:

I had said they were available 

when they weren’t.

They knocked at the door:

one bold rasp followed by two 

softer ones: a dactyl. 

I wondered, if I waited 

a little longer, what feet 

would the knuckles sing next?

Four stressed loud knocks,

as it turned out: two spondees.

Insistent, official, unmistakably 

constabulary. I got up

from my writing desk 

and peeped through the peephole:

They didn’t look like

readers of poetry. But then 

who’s to say, dear reader, 

what you look like anyway?

You will want to know

I never opened that door—

I returned to the poem,

and deleted them penultimately,

ultimately getting away with everything.

---

Paul Hostovsky’s most recent book is Perfect Disappearances (Kelsay, 2025). He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, and has been featured in Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer's Almanac, and the Best American Poetry blog. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. Website: paulhostovsky.com