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Under the court basement,
where fluorescent lights flicker
like dying prayers,
She sits forgotten.
Her briefcase was held together
duct tape and perseverance allow one to
files telling tales
of the nearly blameless.
The death row appeals,
the misguided judgments,
cases smelled
Desperate and cold coffee gone
Nobody else will grab them,
these forgotten reasons,
those impracticable brawls
facing the grinding teeth of the machine.
She terminated her secretary last month,
The phone provider warns of termination.
Still she answers, though.
At the time that hope calls assemble.
Courts where justice is pursued
uses earplugs and a blindfold,
She is by herself.
Cracking voice but sure.
The judge glances at his wristwatch.
The prosecutor yawns.
the gallery is vacant still,
she keeps talking.
Since someone has to believe
in the power of last words,
under the possibilities
that even fragmented systems bleed.
Her final speeches
echo in barren hallways,
while outside,
The globe loses its ears.
She still recalls, though:
each name
each tale,
every last opportunity.
Her call is this.
Protector of Lost Causes:
one who dreams of impossible things, keeper of last resort attorney.