I found him last week – quite by chance – on line,
he and his blond partner, still fighting crime.
Their leather jackets, his red and white car
it’s the way that he moves… coiled, muscular.
It seems somewhat strange at my age – for surely
I’ve fallen in love once more – with Starsky.
I sit before the screen as Starsky pulls his gun
explodes into a running chase
or it’s when he touches his partner’s face
it’s his tightly wound energy and strength that entice
(I’m feeling a little delirious)
my mind has become
such a glamorous place
Starsky is writing his reports on a typewriter
Hutch records evidence reel-to-reel
cars, with bonnets the size of double beds
growl and roar through littered streets
Side-walks with call-boxes hungry for coins
a bit-part actor searches for a dime
Telephones everywhere nakedly revealed
with cables that coil
squatting on desks
or pinned to a wall
The receiver crashes down
in frustration or rage
just so the camera
can dwell on
it’s not the spaniel collars
or the high-waisted trousers
it’s not the victim status
of all the female roles
it’s simply my reflection
look – there on the screen
blurring his expression –
that drags a veil once more between
the present and the past.
Starsky is not reachable by mobile phone.
Image via Wikimedia Commons