Free Nantucket Sawbuck by Steven Axelrod

have thought about it.”
    â€œShe would have hated it,”
    â€œNot if it was any good.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    That might be the worst possible word to hear from a suicidal kid—the essence of giving up, in three descending syllables.
    â€œI write poetry,” I said. “We could work on yours together.”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œGive it a try. Girls love a good poem, written just for them. It could turn things around.”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    He was wavering. “Put the gun down. Pick up a pen. Actually, that’s a pretty good philosophy of life.”
    â€œIs that what you do?”
    â€œIt’s what I’m doing right now. Come on, let’s see what you’ve got.”
    â€œIt’s bad.”
    â€œThat’s why we’re working on it. Writing is re-writing.” Another silence. “Mason? You still with me in there?”
    â€œOkay I have it. But—it’s just…I can’t—the idea is I don’t know what to say, or that, I don’t know…I want words to do more, you know? More than they really can. Like if I had the right words…like a spell, like Harry Potter or something.”
    â€œThat’s good, that’s a start. Like what?”
    â€œI don’t know—massage her neck or put cold towels on her eyes? She gets really bad headaches.”
    â€œThere you go—that’s a beginning. Start a list. It can be a list poem. Use all the senses. What do you want—words to make her taste? Just wing it, whatever comes to mind.”
    â€œRaspberries? And chocolate? The first sip of coffee in the morning.”
    â€œThat’s great! The first sip of coffee. That’s definitely the best one. How about smell? What do you want words to make her smell?”
    He was getting into it now.“Old books? Cut grass? Roses? Not the ones you buy in the store, they don’t even have any smell. I mean the ones that grow here in the summer. Real roses.”
    â€œFantastic, that’s a cool distinction. And it’s kind of a metaphor, too—she’s the real thing. The Nantucket rose.”
    Another long silence. “This won’t work. Words can’t do anything and this stupid poem won’t do anything either. It’s just a stupid waste of time.”
    I could feel him reaching for the gun.
    â€œBut that’s the whole point,” I blurted. “That’s what the poem’s about and that’s your ending, that’s how you wrap it up.” I was already writing it in my head. “I’ll tell you what. I have an idea for the last quatrain. If you like it you can have it, you can write up to it, and know you have a strong finish. What do you say?”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œOkay …. Something like—this is tragic, this is why I rant. I want words to do magic. And they can’t.”
    A pause. Haden stared at me. I knew he wanted to break down the door, just like Dan did.
    Then, from Mason: “That’s pretty good, Chief.”
    I let out a breath. “Then use it, go for it, write the hell out of it. It sure beats a suicide note. Can you do that?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œThen let us in and give me the gun. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”
    Walking away from the house a few minutes later, Haden said, “Nice work, Cyrano. You’re going to be ghostwriting poems for that kid forever.”
    â€œI think he’ll do okay on his own. The first sip of coffee? That was a nice line.”
    We paused at my cruiser. Randy and Sam Dixon had cleared off the lookie-lous. “Who’d ever think a cop could use poetry on the job,” Haden said.
    â€œIt’s happened before. Back in L.A we had some gangbanger in a hostage situation in Compton. I knew the kid, I knew he was a rap battler. So I got into a rap battle with him.”
    â€œCome on.”
    â€œI’m