A POEM - IT WASN'T THE AVERAGE RIDE FROM THE AVERAGE MAN

IT WASN'T THE AVERAGE RIDE FROM THE AVERAGE MAN
As we drove along north from Perth,
Through the desert in the dark,
With no houses or towns around,
he told me about
his very extensive criminal history.
He’d stolen over a thousand cars,
(including the one we were driving in),
pushed millions and millions
of dollars worth of meth,
shot two men,
one to death,
had beaten and tortured countless others,
and he was currently wanted
in Australia and New Zealand.
But the best thing he’d done,
In his point of view,
was burning down the house
of a cop who’d roughed him up
when he’d gotten arrested once.
He had used Malatov cocktails
and right after doing that,
he’d jumped on a plane and had flown
over to Australia,
where he’d been living on the lam ever since.
He said to me, regarding the the cop’s house,
“I really, really enjoyed doing that.”
I turned over and looked at him,
and just had that feeling
that he was a very bad human being.