This poem was published in the Writers Space Africa (WSA) Monthly Literary Magazine in May 2018.
The claimant had whined and wailed
But availed no bit to what was said
Though justice would it all unsay
The jurist, paid to ‘do his work’
Then heard no pledge
Save of him who signed his wage
His freedom all tamed
His confidence all caged, still as stone
Had no feel for the poor man’s talk
“How’d I bill those bucks to prison?”
“Again, how’d I kill for vain reason?”
His heart felt ill
But again not ill, “it’s not a big deal,”
“Keep still,” he comforts his heart.
Soon has turned on him the dime
To strangle the ill, or save the wobbly
Scared as he was; this time did squeeze him down
The walls uttered naught, the gallery turned a clot
Silent, spare the ticking clock, the gavel, heavy, hot
Breaths all were still, waiting on the Pilate’s Seal.
At last he struck it down;
“… I’d make the worst clown
If I kill the weak and save the ill!”
The wrong for same they’d pay the bill.
