The Jury Pool
I've begun this poem in the Quiet Room
of the Baltimore City Courthouse;
the name is a joke given the periodic
belching flush from the restroom
in the corner. I've been dozing--
snooze interruptus, my lunchtime
BLT's repeat. A slumped fat guy snores,
his "Juror" tag rises, falls on his chest.
Woman with scarf wrapped round her head
might be the first casualty of jury service.
Fellow awake jurors clack on their laptops.
And I feel consoled: I've made this poem.
Christopher T. George