by kvennarad



Here is a silent kind of night court, its silence

that of the moment after words are uttered; we

sit under two or three globes of yellow, we are

hard on the chairs, the chairs rasp against the

floor if we move suddenly; we are all patient,

we wait our turn though the committal is never

said, only we know when our number has been

pronounced, we stand, bow to the process, and

go, then another – bow and go, bow and go, we

always bow and go; sometimes we sleep until

our number is pronounced, then we join onto

the train of bowing, going, we try to make our

inclination unique, a salaam, a nod, but no, no,

we only do that same sad, silent bow and go.





full-moon-icon-hi©Marie Marshall