The Bleached Blonde Attorney From Tampa
They say her hair remembers sunlight,
even when the rooms are windowless,
even when the questions stack like files
no one wants to open.
From Tampa’s salt-stung air she rose,
a practiced smile, a courtroom voice,
a lacquered certainty that learned
how to live inside microphones.
Power is a mirror with bad lighting—
it shows you only what it needs.
Behind her, paper storms keep forming,
names half-redacted, dates that bleed.
She walks through corridors of flags,
through praise that claps like shuttered doors,
while somewhere, whispers learn to swim
in darker, colder drawers.
Is it guilt? Or just the gravity
of standing near the grinding wheel?
Even clean hands smell like iron
when history decides to feel.
The cameras love her confidence,
the way it doesn’t flinch or break—
but truth is a slow, patient thing
that never hurries for our sake.
So she stands—bleached, branded, framed—
between the oath and what it hides,
a silhouette of certainty
with doubt stitched softly in the sides.
And Tampa’s sun keeps shining anyway,
as suns have always done before:
indifferent to who holds the keys,
or what is buried in the floor.
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