It is he and he alone.
Standing, enclosed by muted oak,
Facing front, betraying no recognition,
He waits his consequence. His hands
Folded in front, cuffed, resigned to inaction.
His back is straight, his hair closely cropped,
Nearly orange in the reflected florescent hum
Of the court. His jumpsuit blazes to match.
I sit, in tie and shirt, wheels locked, at the back
Of the aisle, one leg resting taut in elevation,
Ankle crooked, dangling on the edge of
A homemade extension. An accident
Of my height was not expected.
I was not prepared.
He decided. It was he. He did not know
My friend, did not know his ambition,
His confidence. My friend will not
Know him. He knew. He did not bother
I sit, in tie and shirt, hands folded in front,
resigned to inaction. He stands, tall
And firm within his wooden box.
He walks out of court, back into holding.
I watch him walk.
He does not know me.
Archiving all of these memories
2 years ago