The Process Or Kafka's Dream Part 1 (Revised)
Across the cracked concrete slabs,
past a fallen dogwood
left lying like so much litter
at the red brick base of the court house;
the jurors strode.
Through the doors too heavy
for a mere woman to open unassisted
and their constant societal reminder of place
of strength and weakness;
doors serving as the first purposeful
architectural devise of disrespect,
up to the toy soldiers of the city
at their arched metal catcher gate;
the jurors of democracy strode.
Patted down, prodded,
stripped of our individuality,
so like the cattle, they assume we are;
like the criminals, who we are told are..
“Presumed innocent until proven guilty.”;
we too are subjected to the indignities of the law.
The jurors moved.
Herded up rickety elevators into the bowels
of the ivory towers of jurist prudence,
funneled in alphabetical order to weary clerks;
who sticker, stamp and quantify us,
innumerable names to numerous lists;
the jurors wait.
The sheer nature of the building,
the room, its officials, cowed the crowd
who sat cud chewing and bottom scratching,
awaiting the arrival of the Judge?
I sat, longing for the days of Jefferson.
the rebirth of the Renaissance man;
wrestling with the morality of the ignorant justice?
Wondering what poor, schmuck,
was to be brought before these modern day
Madame Defarges who sat knitting.
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