Down the stairs at the end of the hall
lights flicker green-gray,
first-edition issue from the First World War
gasping for the last electrons in their tubes.
The man walks in with the black plastic bag
and spills bits of a life onto the gray slab.
Yes, this belonged to me.
Down the stairs and across the street
four lives wait
second-time offenders in second-degree crime
sighing at their own mistake of being caught.
The man walks in with his worn brown case
and lays out their fate on the gray table.
No, they will be tried as adults.
Down the stairs and to the left
scrubbed abusers inquire
third-strike parents in a third-rate home
choking on their last tears--all the others spent.
The man walks over with the white paper file
and lays out their future on the gray counter.
No, their children will not be going home.
