The defendant mumbles
then steels and states that
at the time of the incident
he was drinking 18 to 20 schooners of beer a day.
Gone is the job, his wife and
a house that had children - but the judge interrupts
and wonders aloud what
relevance this has to proceedings.
The judge yawns, a slow afternoon
and his lunch was accompanied by
a fine chardonnay.
To conclude lunch he had a scotch
with Judge Anderson
but really - he doesn't
consider himself a 'scotch man'.
Counsel for the prosecution
slows the tapping of his pen.
Three years back counsel was
a mess; four-day binges,
not showing for hearings.
He's clean now
but must walk a jaggard route
from court back to his chambers
so that he doesn't pass
He makes a sight; robed and wigged
striding down littered, urine-stinking alleys.
And still counsel hears
the Sirens call.
Other poems by Andrew Milson
Short fiction by Andrew Milson