James Mclain Poet Free verse

the police report

because we arrested a suspect
he must be guilty.

the complainant said that there was no perpetrator,
that’s what the report said
in clean boxes
and stamped ink certainty.

no room for hesitation there—
no trembling human maybe,
no “we might be wrong”
no blood on the margins of procedure.

just a name turned into a case number
and a number turned into guilt,
like the typewriter never learned doubt
and never wanted to.

wanting, no needing a conviction this opportunity 
may not come again, 
causing harm to the complainant never mattered,
like perfume on a locked cell door.

and everyone nods
because it’s easier that way
than looking too long
at the wrong face in the mirror of authority.

because after the report was written
the truth never mattered. 

and truth is just another signature
at the bottom of a form
nobody reads twice,
not even the ones who wrote it,
not even the ones
who have to live then die inside of it.

and the defendant given only two weeks 
to prepare for trial,
the state attorney introducing an empty paper bag
that caught the attention of the jury,
without ever being opened.

while telling the jurors that the burden of proof 
fall's on the defendant to prove 
that he is innocent of those heinous charges.

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Paige Hind May 16, 2026 at 6:41 PM I am always being educated when I read you. "and truth is just another signature at the bottom of a form nobody reads twice, not even the ones who wrote it, not even the ones who have to live then die inside of it" is just begging to bleed of the page