Priorities

She enters the courtroom
in her best dress,
one that still smells faintly
of alcohol.

Even sober, she stumbles
as she walks -
almost as if her body
surrendered long ago.

As she stands before him,
the magistrate sighs,
wondering how many times
they'll find themselves here.

"Violating parole...
caught drinking again.
Looks like the same old
thing."

She shrugs,
no defense prepared -
no defense at all.

The judge's eyes narrow
as he continues reading.
"Lost your son
for good this time -
hardly seems worth
it, does it?"

She finally meets his gaze,
"I don't know about that.
After all, it was some
really good vodka."

The judge drops his
pen and his jaw.

"Don't look at me
like that," she complains.

"How else
am I supposed
to look at you?"
the judge asks
as he closes the woman's
file, effectively hiding the picture
of one sad little boy.