by Don Two
Amanda's ordeal at the police station.
|She lawyered up, and in a split
second she bit on her tongue,
trying to hide her pain.
But it was futile, so she quit
and grimaced; agony had begun,
almost as if she were slain.
(Amid Miranda rights that day
Amanda found no comfort there.
Among the images at hand,
bare bulb, dank cell a fan above.)
She grabbed a chair, and for a brief
moment she chewed on her lip,
sitting with her legs crossed.
The officers spotted her grief.
Holding the arm with an iron grip,
she knew all hope was lost.
(Would that my pain be lost from view
among stone walls and closing in.
And countenances cold and blank,
my fate in hands of callous men.)
“Having a lawyer is my right,”
she said, lip and tongue released.
“Aside from that, I will say no more.”
Midnight; face of the moon shone bright.
That night, inhumanity increased
as one in uniform locked the door.
(They came at her with force extant
Miranda not withstanding.
Perhaps some day a higher court…
assuming she’d remember.)