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
div>
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
Bookmarks