Sitting In A Jury Duty Wait Room

is a poem waiting to happen in raspberry weather
with a knife in its boot, whispering “excelsior”
as it watches you redress in your winter clothes —
scares you into eating allergic peanut butter
and bathroom tile, sleeping in 300-count threaded
swords like Egypt hotnights, deadening your hair
to all wind and hats, and generally presenting
yourself as a person of disinterest. Like this poem,
it doesn’t make much sense, is a boring 8 hour
day with a humid lunch break and the flightiness
of your name being asked by the most gorgeous
body in front of the whole class, only they pretend
they don’t speak English and miss the proposal.

-C.S. Henderson