True Crime

You understand it's not like CSI.
Right? says the judge. She pulls her glasses down
and glares. The jurors smirk and look away,

thinking Well, duh: no babe or hunky guy
is anywhere in evidence. The clown
who's Plaintiff is in ripped jeans and a tee;

the prosecutor's suit is thin and shiny.
His line is that Defendant pulled a gun
on Plaintiff, on a stretch of rural highway,

but photos (staged) to show what P. could see
look wrong: a different car, a different weapon,
a trumped-up view not shown convincingly —

no fingerprints, no blood, no DNA.
Only the troopers' word they found the gun.
(The tech can't get their video to play.)

And why they thought the accused should testify
is still a mystery. But the jury's keen
to take the case and wrangle. What they say

can't apprehend what's true and what's a lie:
Which actor here's the sympathetic one?
Drama at last: men shout and women cry.

The state will try again another day.
Jury dismissed. No justice will be done
this episode. It's not like CSI.

Maryann Corbett

If you have any comments on this poem, Maryann Corbett would be pleased to hear them.

Snakeskin logo