Docket
She parses her split
ends, waiting for
the judge. The scab
on her hand is week-
old-pink and probably still
winces at a touch.
His honor calls names
at untimely
intervals,
and she raises her head
at each. Perhaps
thinking of answering
in the place of a no-show;
perhaps forgetting,
in the courtroom crock-
pot of the unwashed
and cologned,
in the goulash
of driving privilege abusers
and disappointed mothers,
the meaning
of names
at all.
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