Poor Justice

Walking with two cups of French Roast
Across an uneven field,

Coffee dashing across my clothes,
Staining my palms and nails,

I think of Justice and her stillness—
How one step would upset the scales.

No hope of romping across Swiss alps,
Of holding fresh tea leaves,

Or taking a lover in Cleveland
(That blindfold bespeaking her wild side).

No, she must remain rooted in place—
A prison-bronze gilding her ungently,

Perspectives brought before her
which the stilled scales answer—

Scales held like her distant cousin
Atlas holds up the world. They dip,

Hold, judge, sway, pronounce guilty,
While, blindfolded, she guesses

Outcomes from the cries and whoops
Of the storytellers before her.