Some days I want to be Nicola Walker

and stare perplexedly into the middle distance

with one crease, one particularly characterful

furrow knitting my brow, not an old lady furrow

oh no something about the way I hold this furrow

in this ongoingly perplexed stare will imply a whole

panoply of barely suppressed emotions, a gamut

even, simmering away under the surface of this

singular furrow topped off with an immensely

enigmatic rage that also, paradoxically, resembles

serenity and I will do banter in my cop car with my

sidekick oh definitely I want a sidekick with whom

I will stop. Unwontedly. Here. And also sometimes —
there. And I will chew my lip. And he will hold his

breath. Bamboozled by my odd. Choice. Of hiatus.

And no one will move until I speak again.