Feeling his pulse accelerate
through the vinyl padding of my jacket,
I kept the elbow compacted against his fragile neck.
As adrenaline sharpens the vision,
I notice the glinting temples
becoming drenched by nervous waterfall washings.
His breath corrupted by Joe's Pizza,
eyes rolling like gunshot-spooked mares.
If I don't get an answer soon, I may have to release.
My instincts have yet to fail me,
evidenced by my decorated office.
He's holding back information that will put him away.
Perhaps I might not don the cape
of a vigilante, if not prodded daily.
My mother sells her flesh on Shaunard Street curb.
My sister in Virginia sunshine
might be found in dumpsters soon,
having the habit of diving for needles to help fix.
This suspect chokes on the pressure,
so I let off a bit to let him speak.
The training takes over, those modules not gone to waste.
"Who supplies your dealings?"
I ask with violent voice.
One last chance for confession, I say a Hail Mary.
"He lives on Spencer, his name is Carthage...
Jeff Carthage, and he'll kill you for this."
I stumble back, stomach split like a crucifix curtain.
My son, the Honor Roll student.
Suddenly I loathe my career and badge.
Now I have to hold my Jeff, but not like he's used to.
Bronze trophy winner
Adding your comment:
My main concern is that it has soooo many elements of a story, from the prose-ish style writing to the action and dialogue, that except for line breaks there isn’t a lot to differentiate story from poetry. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, because either way this is excellently written. It does, however, make it difficult to keep in a poetic context...and in my mind breaks rule #12 which states “no short stories”. 
I’ll be curious to see what Bear’s thinking on that is, though. 
But in all fairness I have to say that’s what I would want to see in a PO contest entry, and there is plenty of room for this style of poetry, written exactly as you have it, outside the PO contests. 
