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Dennis McNamara was a cop in Upper Darby, PA, which
borders Philadelphia. On the night of January 30,
2002, he was gunned down while on duty. Dennis was
forty-three, a husband, dad, son and brother. He was
not stereotypical as a cop or as a person. About five
days before his murder, he began a poem...this poem.
I am a cop...a poet. I was given this poem by Dennis'
sister-in-law. It ended with the ... two lines before
the close of the first stanza. After adjusting for
end-stops, I simply followed the feelings the work
gave me, and I finished it off in about twenty
minutes. It is more his than mine, but it is every
cop's, every person's.
I never knew Dennis; now he is dead. I have become
part of him as he is now part of me. Cops share a lot
to start with. Read this as if it is from one poet's
pen. It may well be.
JJ Camp
DAYS UNRAVELED
My
world began to move slower
today, I don’t know
when I lost it:
my expertise on life.
I don’t know
when I lost
touch with your soul.
Everything moves too slowly now.
I once thought our consciousness
could live looking down
on the trees, the mountains, the streams…
begging their forgiveness
for nothing but love.
Now—later—after the moment
that maimed our day has passed
into news accounts and fortunes reversed,
I sense that the aloof
and spinning Earth
has slowed to dead stop.
Frozen streams refuse to reflect
the moon. Trees ache
for Spring that never warms again,
and mountains fail at their foundations.
Days unraveled and chances lost remain
in memories of us that only you will keep.
Only you will keep.
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