-Brockton-

one morning in the life:

the courtroom is oversized, considering

the few participants in attendance this morning.

sitting behind a utilitarian banquet table, the magistrate

shuffles papers with the assistance

of a young assistant sitting beside him.

the lids of their laptops are open to the digital
information of the morning's docket.
It's as quiet as a roman catholic wake.

the courtroom seems to be waiting

for something else, something bigger,
maybe a snazzy triple-homicide,

but that's not happening today.

today, the man wearing football jersey #12

lists heavily in his chair waiting

for his actual name to be called.
the charge against him has been loaded to the docket.

somebody said he did something wrong.

an entity said. the laptops say, the furniture store said. 

he didn’t do something he was supposed to do.

he didn’t pay-up.

now he’s on his own, in the universe of courtroom
C-15, docket 17-12564.

In short-order his name is called with the aid of unnecessary
amplification through the mic of the able assistant,
resonating through the space of capricious jurisprudence, 
equal justice under law, the court in session to hold him accountable.

his name is common man, everyday guy,
the guy of the work-a-day world who finds himself
lost in the cold, florescent sterility of the here and now.
“Richard LaCava”?!––

and he rises slowly, like the Rabi

standing accused before Pontius Pilate.

but Richard promises to pay the balance

in four convenient monthly installments and is set free,

passing quickly toward the swinging doors
with the glossy effects of a newborn. 

“William Dee..De-liar..Dell-iah..”?–– and up he rises

like Ahab, lashed to the flesh of the breaching Whale!