Traffic Court

Walls the color of caked foundation,
Fair skin, yellow undertone,
Completely opaque.

A grid of foreboding black chairs,
More comfortable than they need to be.
Nobody uses the desks in the corner.

My heart feels singed as I breathe in;
Injustice hangs in the air of this room.
Everyone is miserable or irritated or scorned.

I try not to be.
Mucus gathers in the back of my throat and
I swallow gruffly.

Documents prepared in my bag,
I wasn’t nervous until I sat down;
It’s not the room’s fault, though.

The place — the System —
Extracted us from our lives,
Made us each miss work or leisure,

And shuttled us through this
Liminal, inflamed space.
It suddenly occurs to me,

No one cleanses this room.

{ My legal last name is called. }

I follow the bailiff
(Is that what they’re called in traffic court?)
Into the court room.

Two unforgiving black chairs
In front of a grand desk on a pedestal
In front of the oldest man I’ve ever seen.

“One hour parking zone,
You weren’t there for any significant amount of time.
I’ll find you Not Guilty.”

I didn’t even need my documents…?
Okay!
Thank you sir!

{ I exit onto an open street, leaving the low ceilings behind. }

People miss more than $45 worth of work
For that.
I am fortunate my boss is a human being.

I will be forgiven.
But, God,
Was that a strange morning.