Inspector Inspector (1-7)
The Mechanical Dog
The mechanical dog does not wish to be mistaken for a real dog. Its long-legged purpose is to scare the citizens of this purpose-built park into wearing their masks. Its eyes, two video cameras, hunt down offenders tirelessly. Its yellow body is always on the go. The citizens are, however, unafraid of the dog. They whisk near to the dog and wish to take selfies with it. Look, the citizens say, if you abide by the law, what do you have to be afraid of? The mechanical dog wags its tail in agreement, activated by the inspector looking through its eyes. In a distant galaxy, called Shannara or Harlem, the salt scattered on the icy sidewalk is slowly eating up the concrete. Munch, munch, what’s for lunch?
The Picnic Mat
When they left, the hospital tents in the park had imprinted neat rectangles of dead grass. A paraphrase of what happened. A Morse message, all dashes, no dots. Horizontal smoke signals. QR code. It also reminded me of the AIDS quilt. Then it was rolled up and put away. The area of possible infection had been fenced off. The strollers and their nannies had been careful to keep their distance. The grass had grown back in a center-left conspiracy. If you again hover in your helicopter, like an angel on a wire in a Christmas pageant or a police inspector, you will say, behold. The picnickers have returned to their usual spots, with their hampers, books, and dogs, sitting on the black picnic mats.
The Body Camera
“You cannot bring the body camera with you to the grave,” says the kitchen inspector. He dips his finger into the batter and tastes it. It is grainy. We are, after all, in the quarterfinals of the Great British Baking Show, where the judgment will be more severe than ever. For the technical challenge, Paul and Mary would like you to bake an anti-terrorism sword. It is a Chinese app and everyone will be required to download it onto their phone. You have two-and-a-half hours. You may remove the gingham covering now. The camera is rolling. The anus remembers.
The search in my underwear is unwarranted. I have not had a nocturnal emission since I was fifteen, dreaming that my scout leader was pulling off his shirt and advancing on my vibrating form. Before he could touch me, I was all wet and warm below. But now, whenever I write about the dream, and I am always writing about the dream even when I am not, the beautiful scout leader wears the air of an inspector who has a master’s degree in detecting signs of child abuse. His right hand pulses with an ultraviolet light. No matter how hard I write, I cannot change him back. You know him too. The undeniable UFO that blots out sun and rain.
The Bad Prompt
The inspector came to me while I was writing with my writing students because none of them had submitted a poem for workshop. They were a good bunch, but school knocked the stuffing out of them that week. For a prompt, I told them to let one word lead to another. I know. It was not much of a prompt. I had given better prompts in the past. I thought this bad prompt would open the door to our wintry room for different kinds of visitors from beyond. I did not ask my students who came to them, but for me, the inspector came, stamping his boots free of snow, his hands holding my head by my big ears. In a normal voice my head said, write me.
The Bagel Door
The man behind the counter had a bad night. He banged the brown paper bag of bagels in front of the customer in front of me. I did not know that bagels could make such a smart tap, as if a building inspector was at the door of my apartment. What could I say to the unsmiling caller? My bathroom faucet was leaky? I had no permits for the double-glazed windows? The fire escape had rusted shut before I moved in? No explanation would satisfy the inspector, not even the two dollars that the customer stuffed into the little metal basket between them before waving a cheerful goodbye, which authenticity was hard to ascertain.
The Ghost Bus
The bus goes past us, and then stops a full length ahead. An inspector, blue-uniformed, hops off, and the bus takes off. It is not our bus. The next bus stops for us, but also stops a full-length before my bus-stop. There is no reason for it, as the bus lane in front of it is blank, as blank as the white spaces between words. There is no reason for my bus to stop there. I walk down the length of my morning bus, and I walk down the length of the ghost bus, wondering how many ghost people are riding it to a ghost destination that I know nothing of. The lights change just in time for me to cross the road, and I look down the full length of the ghost bus, seeing no one, but my morning driver who is looking, I imagine, back at me. It is the first year of the pandemic.
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