I
Abandoned police station you sleep by tourist shops and city harbor.
Strange, there is nothing to extol your past grandeur.
What untold stories of derring-do behind your walls must hide?
A metal fence with bars imprisons your history from the curious eye.
Your archway has no plaque or flag that stories patrolmen bold
Who gave in pursuit of justice their lives and blood;
Who with bullets and smoking pistols brought bad men to custody.
You trumpeted the academy lesson of protecting life and property.
You stood against evil in the cold  night and offered protection.
Now your hollow skeleton lays abandoned and alone.

II
An orphan son who once wore badge and gun stands outside the station’s hall.
He wonders what terrible monster could have caused his father’s fall.
He places his hands against the station’s face as to begin an autopsy,
or feel a pulse; then in quiet dismay he slowly pulls his hands away
to ask himself, “What is a police station anyway?”
At best a house of shepherds protecting rights and pursuing wrongs.
At worst tin stars that turn a few lawmen into infamous gods
causing accusations against the innocent of dispensing justice
outside the courts; not to scare the criminals on the streets,
but to set a price on silence broken by police.

III
Like a fallen god of yore abandoned without praise you lie.
What powerful demonic event could have stolen your pride?
What could have happened that you now rest unadorned?
It was with your blessing long ago patrolmen went to the streets;
with guns, clubs and handcuffs each to cast shadows of giants.
What of those patrolmen, forgotten orphans everyone?
You were the father of men who honored right over wrong.
Their muscle, blood and action were your regulation and rule. 
The day your doors were closed there were no heros on parade.
The city fathers shut and locked your doors afraid.

IV
Since the first Roman Centurion with spear and shield took a complaint
from a citizen of Rome about the emperor’s law being broke
human nature has remained the same.
Surrounded by the smell of sulfur and blue-pink flare; 
before a patrolman decides to make an arrest; before a detective
lifts a print with charcoal dust and tape; or in a cushy office
in the sky the lonely district attorney deigns to prosecute;
None can but think about options in the heart
of who or what would benefit
from the decision to act or not.

V
Your story is about protectors that became ambitious.
A tale of protecting life and property wrapped in circumstances
of trust and power that eventually forces each to ask,
“Where shall I place my loyalty of heart?”
In the hands of brother cops who cover my back with pistols cocked!
In books of law and men in robes that seek justice in this world;
or justice of the ultimate kind in the worship of divine.
Some find the answer in the law, others in their god;
A few exchange their soul and silence for promotion;
While some like the orphan son turn in their badge and gun.

VI
Without a celebration of great deeds, without a stone or plaque,
without a speech that lauds the dead to insure no questions asked;
This is the way great police stations are retired;
One day the doors are closed and the demon comes to guard
against brave deeds of the station’s orphans springing forth.
The whisper in the monster’s breath takes the form of simple truth.
When silence is exchanged for promotion and reward,
instead of law silence is enforced.
Best step soft about this buildings vacant rooms
and not disturb ghosts of past investigations closed.

Charles N. Guthrie, is an author who lives and writes in Southern California.