Collect your face, collect your crotch, and it warns them you're up to no good. Fight back? Too many, too tough, too well-thought-of. Run? Concrete everywhere, and they'll feel betrayed. You tried? Try again? Your proud forgiving nature's just a dark thing moaning in the corner. They never wink if you guess right: Why you, why anyone who smells like you. To chop harder wood than Pa ever could, or to curse a wrecked day or a worse old lady, or Faith: If they share their pain with you they'll build you a better world. You sink to the cell floor sick of subtlety; your crime, knowing the truth: They're not cops.
A. Y. Tanaka