Dressed in all black,
Looking typically suspicious
His back never to the door, yet
Occasionally monitoring his smartphone
Or the chatter coming from his high tech gadgets,
He sits alert in the corner booth.
As he moves a step closer, my brother Peter
Sees not a blond hair out of place,
No, not a grimace on Jack’s gnarly face,
Despite the great torture
He’s undoubtedly undergone
In a single day’s work.
What hour did he know of
The twenty-four later revealed?
What grim act of terror
Would rivet millions to their seats?
What great or weak United States President
Would he devotedly serve this go-round?
A holster strapped to his leg,
As his cuffs would bind outlaws,
Housed a cold, black Glock 30,
And the clips in his belt hung like ominous clouds.
Had he and his character so united that they
Merged into one on and off the set?
Was that Jack’s shiny black SUV
Parallel parked at the curb outside?
Or was that Peter’s imagination
Wishing what he only should dream?
How many high-sped chases, real or fantastic,
Had its tires endured?
Peter half expected the man’s blutooth
To blink before hearing
“Yes, I am calling on behalf of CTU. Yes, the crisis
Has been averted. Tell
All teams to stand down now!”
Peter stepped forward.
Their eyes instantaneously meet.
“Hi, my name is Peter and I’m one of your biggest fans.
Can I get your autograph?”
And the gruff voice grates in response, “Sure,
Which name should I use?
Jack Bauer or Kiefer Sutherland?”
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