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Just the most unlikely man to ever be called Friday.
Monday, maybe, or Wednesday, or Sunday
so long as Sunday meant jacket and tie,
church in the morning, second pew,
Latin, anyone’s confession but his own.
Jack Webb, from the city, Los Angeles,
carrying badge number 714, so dead pan
not even Dan Akroyd could pull it off,
taking his coffee simply black.
No one cares anymore if the stories are true.
No one cares if the names have been changed.
No one tries to protect the innocent.
Where are you Joe Friday when we need you?
All we want are the facts.
© by Scott Owens.
Used with the author’s permission.
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Scott Owens lives in Hickory, NC, with his wife and three children. Widely published and the recipient of numerous awards, he is the founder of Poetry Hickory, editor of Wild Goose Poetry Review and 234, and vice president of the Poetry Council of NC. The first in his family to graduate from high school, Scott credits poetry with turning his life around.
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Joe Sottile:
Yes, this poem is a gem. I remember that Dragnet Days, while growing up on Long Island. I almost remember meeting my hero, Hopalong Cassidy.
Posted 01/17/2011 11:26 AM
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dotief@comcast.net:
Love it! What I wouldn't give for the unadorned facts!
Posted 01/17/2011 08:18 AM
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Gary Busha:
An excellent, dead-pan poem. This one hit a chord with me. Thanks.
Posted 01/17/2011 05:33 AM
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Phyllis Beckman:
Thank you Scott Owens.
May I have permission to read this to open a discussion of Superheroes?
Posted 01/17/2011 05:21 AM
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