As you suggest, I will have the nettle tea
to calm my conscience. It is terrible to have to tell you
where I’ve been. This morning, I sat several hours
in the city courtroom. I felt so out of place –
exposed, I mean. Since the policeman pulled me over,
I’ve asked friends repeatedly for pointers.
Whatever they advise, I repeat into the bathroom
mirror: No, your Honor. Yes, your Honor. As you see,
I wore my best black pants and the boots
you always praise. Last night I washed my face,
extracting all the filth. At 8 AM at the city court,
I hardly found a space to park; cars wedged
like star points in a crowded constellation.
In the lobby, straightened folding chairs. I studied
only limbs – observing hands, but never faces.
A woman hurried past. No one moved as thumps
and screams soaked through the bathroom wall.
Whatever crime it was, she could not unmake it.
I sat, folding and finger-pressing my unease.
My number flashed. They sent me down the hall.
Inside the courtroom, a defendant swallowed
hope too loudly, waiting for release. A clock played
its repeating sounds, the weighted helpless seconds.
The judge called through the docket, and didn’t
ask for many reasons. All was done with great dispatch.
I gave my ears to the click-click of the surly clerk,
typing fees and failures, as I filled with half-
knowledge and sudden knowledge of the law,
of how to measure angles, how to lie explicitly
and estimate each outcome. Nothing else to do;
I prepared a face. When I heard my name, I stood,
carrying silent oscillations with my body.
What I’d done was hardly worthy of such worry,
but we each discount the bristles of our dangers.
At the podium, I nodded and looked down to trace
the carpet pattern. Anyway, she pardoned me.
You were kind to ask about my morning,
but this is rude, my going on so long. And why
this matters now? A piece of me was matched
with every person, every consequence, with each
acknowledged break of margin.