Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Bob Hicok’s "Capital Crime" is a study in contemporary American frustration, a portrait of a man whose simple dreams of love and leisure are systematically dismantled by the economic pressures of everyday life. The poem captures the erosion of hope, the precariousness of working-class existence, and the way small indignities can accumulate into a moment of profound—and almost inevitable—desperation. Hicok’s signature blend of humor, empathy, and formal looseness allows the poem to move effortlessly between a tender love story and an examination of financial despair, offering an unflinching yet deeply humanistic view of what it means to be struggling in America.

The narrative unfolds with an almost cinematic clarity, beginning with the protagonist’s plans for a road trip to Moonlight Bay, a setting already imbued with an almost mythical quality. The imagery of "bag of Ruffles and grapes, ham sandwiches for the ride, beer and a joint for later" paints a modest but idyllic vision, a man’s attempt at romance within his means. The setting is imagined in precise detail: "sunlight on water and clanging bells and other women in swimsuits and tank tops he’d try not to look at whenever she turned away, a reflex." The speaker’s internal monologue, filled with casual honesty and self-awareness, makes him immediately sympathetic. His concerns—whether to propose "on sand or grass but otherwise standing or sitting, certainly outdoors unless rain and if rain then the tent and not a bar, never a restaurant"—reveal the careful consideration of a man with limited means, someone who understands that even a proposal must be budgeted.

Yet, even as he rehearses the perfect moment, the economic realities of his life intrude. "But when did gas hit 12.01?" This line, almost thrown in as an aside, marks the shift in tone from romantic aspiration to practical despair. The cost of gas becomes the axis around which his thoughts begin to spiral: "His F-150 gets ten miles per and as he went for the emergency 50 kept folded in the last flap of his wallet he remembered the valve he had to buy for his compressor and began the math." The decision-making process is one of elimination—subtracting flip-flops, chips, beer—until the realization sets in that even this small, perfect day may be out of reach.

Hicok captures the psychology of financial instability with remarkable precision. The protagonist's frustration is not just about this single moment but about a lifetime of just barely getting by, of watching others profit while he struggles: "The oil guys always whined how they were hurting for dough under headlines of record profits, just like his boss never had enough for a quarter bump though he tooled into the lot each year in a new Caddy, the only question was color, red or blue." The disparity between his own sacrifices and the unchecked wealth of those above him is a constant, gnawing irritation, one that builds until it reaches a breaking point.

This breaking point is crucial: "And no he shouldn’t have screamed at the man behind the counter who didn’t understand him anyway, who was trained to finger the silent alarm if threats to the Slim Jims arise." The phrase "threats to the Slim Jims" is both darkly comic and devastating—it reduces his economic suffering to something absurdly small in the eyes of the system that polices him. The police arrive, and in Hicok’s sharp critique of law enforcement’s approach to poverty, we see how the protagonist’s unraveling is met not with understanding but with "pepper spray… how they argue economic theory." In just a few lines, Hicok skewers the dehumanization of the poor, the way even "two minutes of his life unhinged" can be enough to brand him as dangerous, undeserving.

Yet, despite this bleak turn, the poem does not end in hopelessness. In an unexpected reversal, his fiancée posts bail, and their love is affirmed in an intimate, almost euphoric sequence: "That she said yes outside the station after posting bail led to a night of impossible tumbling and a long, naked conversation on the picnic table under a sheet and stars." Here, Hicok gestures toward the resilience of human connection, the way love—however precarious—can endure even in the face of economic failure. The phrase "the embarrassment of neighbors’ hoots" adds a note of humor, reinforcing that, for a brief moment, their happiness is unshaken.

However, Hicok refuses to let the poem end in a sentimental resolution. The last scene returns to the same economic anxieties that initiated the crisis: "But then he took the corner at Maple and Wallace slowly… when the numbers on the Sunoco board came clear, $2.19 for unleaded, and the little man with the branding iron went to work behind his eyes." The metaphor of "the little man with the branding iron" suggests an internalized pain, a kind of branding of failure, marking him as someone perpetually aware of his own economic precarity. The final realization—"that of all you could hope your most insane wish is just to be flush"—is heartbreaking in its simplicity. It underscores the way financial insecurity shrinks dreams down to survival, to nothing more than the absence of worry.

Hicok’s style in "Capital Crime" is marked by fluid, breathless syntax, mimicking the way thoughts spiral under stress. His use of humor, even in moments of deep distress, reflects a distinctly American way of coping—laughter as a last defense against despair. Structurally, the poem mirrors the protagonist’s emotional trajectory, beginning with hope, descending into anger, then momentarily rebounding into love before settling back into the steady hum of economic anxiety.

Ultimately, the poem captures something deeply familiar: the way money—or the lack of it—dictates the possibilities of love, leisure, and even dignity. The protagonist’s "crime" is not one of malice but of being overwhelmed, of wanting "one perfect thing, cheap but perfect." It is a reminder that for many, economic hardship is not about grand failures but about the slow accumulation of small defeats, each one tightening the constraints on what is possible. The tragedy is not just that he cannot afford a trip to the lake—it is that the simple dream of a "bag of Ruffles and grapes" and "one day giving the soul back to water" has been turned into an unattainable luxury.

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