Saturday, May 29, 2010

one I like, just do


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


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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