Prone in the concrete courtyard
Focused on nature’s absorption
Each molecule of sunlight
Every breath of non-recirculated air
Intent, however ineffectively
On blocking out the incessant
Murmuring cadence of voices
Poking cattle-prods against her.
Her name, raised in summons
Emanates from row’s end
(Orange clad cheese-puffs half-baked)
Pierces efforts at peaceful reverie.
Request, from quarter least familiar
Lobbed nonchalantly
Masquerading normative
“Will you be my jail mom?”
Nonplussed, though now accustomed to
Smoke bombs, hand grenades & flying shrapnel
She fields the serve, volleys back
Ascertains duties, job description
Position defined vaguely,
Supplicant desirous of a listening ear
(Check, decades’ experience)
Response to mom appellation
(Check, second nature, near automatic)
Detecting no land mines, booby traps
Unceremoniously, she acquiesces
Muses, half-heartedly
When the Queen of Hearts
Will declare, imperiously
“Off with her head!”
