Twenty years ago, there seemed to be some discussion and debate about curbing a certain type of undesirable business between men and women which appeared to be centered, at that time, along a stretch of Colfax Avenue. The two major daily newspapers had been approached by law enforcement about publishing the photographs of suspected participants, in the belief that the threat of publicity would reduce such interpersonal business transactions. Being inspired by the possibility, I sat down at the keyboard and punched out the following poem. I was quite surprised to see the entire poem (which surely exceeded the word limit) included in the Letters to the Editors in the Denver and the West section of The Denver Post on July 26, 1994. I've made some slight changes from the original to make a better fit with the meter in a few lines:
‘Twas a foggy night in Denver when my parents came to town.
They exited I-70 and commenced to wander round.
Mother gave directions using memory and maps.
She wanted to avoid downtown and major traffic traps.
Darkness hid the street signs as they drifted aimlessly.
Fatigue and fog conspired to make it difficult to see.
Then suddenly a major street, a landmark came to view.
Father said “Let’s turn west here” on Colfax Avenue.
Mother quickly gave consent, she thought the idea sound.
But didn’t realize her map was tilted upside down.
So instead of driving to my house on routes they knew the best,
My parents strayed off course by turning east instead of west.
Thus, off the wayward couple crept to a fate no one deserves,
'Twould be a memorable meeting with the cops out in the ‘burbs.
Dad was growing weary and the hour was growing late.
He even started doubting whether Mom could navigate.
As they passed into Aurora father knew they’d gone astray.
Mom said, “Stop and get directions and we’ll be back on our way.
Look dear, there’s a woman and she’s waiting for a bus.
She’s doesn’t have coat on.
Maybe she would ride with us”.
Dad pulled up beside the lady and asked if she was free.
She replied that if he’d like they could negotiate her fee.
Dad said, “It’s late, we’re very tired.
We’ll gladly pay you ten.
But please get in. It’s very
cold. We can’t get lost again”.
The lady mumbled something ‘bout my father being cheap.
Dad said, “Yes, I am a
rancher. We have cows, but never sheep.
Mom unlocked the door and said, “It’s cold, now please get in.”
The lady shrugged her shoulders saying, “OK, I guess you win.”
Mom said she felt much better now and safer with a guide.
Dad told Mom to settle back and just enjoy the ride.
He turned around and started west as soon as traffic cleared.
‘Twas then he saw the flashing lights reflected in the mirror.
He dutif’ly pulled to the right to let the car go past,
But it stopped instead behind him.
Now his heart was beating fast.
He knew he wasn’t speeding. He
hadn’t run a light.
He’d driven very carefully. It
was a foggy night.
Two officers approached dad’s car, guns drawn and poised to fire.
The guide now spoke and barked at dad to get out of the car.
She pulled his arms behind his back, placed handcuffs on his wrists.
Then a trenchcoat-covered spectre surfaced from the cloudy mists.
It bolted right in front of Dad.
There came a flash of light.
Then it vanished just as quickly off into the foggy night.
The undercover hooker, watching Dad’s eyes track the shadow,
Crowed, “That’s how we handle perverts in Aurora, Colorado.”.
When our clock at home struck midnight, we were anxious and depressed.
And we hoped that Mom and Dad had sense to stop somewhere and rest.
Our fears were interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
I was glad to hear Mom speaking, but was troubled by her tone.
“Your father’s in some trouble, son.
He’s safe, but he’s in jail.
Could you come out to Aurora, please, and help us with his bail?
Dad told us of their getting lost, reviewed the whole sad story.
The calm detective dropped the case and said that he was sorry.
We left the jail at three o’clock, arriving home by four.
My tired folks went straight to bed and closed the bedroom door.
The slumber didn’t last long because morning came so soon.
Grandkids sought out Grandma who they hadn’t seen since June.
My wife and I climbed out of bed; we got the children dressed.
We tried to keep them quiet so that Mom and Dad could rest.
May parents said “good morning” to the kids while still in bed.
I told the kids to let them rest and watch cartoons instead.
Mother woke at ten o’clock, refreshed and much relieved,
But wondering why the vice squad was so easily deceived.
With morning paper in her hand, she found a padded chair
And looked for stores to shop in and a place to do her hair.
The enjoyment of her browsing ceased quite unexpectedly
When the likeness of her husband jumped right off page 93.
We all heard Grandma’s startled gasp, we ran to catch a glimpse
Of the mug shot of my father under “Prostitutes & Pimps”.
You may disregard my story or believe it, if you choose.
But that’s how Grampa got his picture in The Rocky Mountain News.
The day the poem was published, I received a telephone call at home from a reporter from "Westword", a local weekly investigative paper, who asked to interview me to get more information about my parents' run in with local law enforcement. I confessed that the entire episode was fictional.
