Spirit Of Law

At An Officer's Discretion

‘They look at me’, she shouts,
‘they sit in judgment’.
Her eyes are focused on pigeons courting
in the walls of the Castle ruins.

‘They're not bothered’, I say, ‘about you.
Let’s talk about getting you housed’.
‘You don’t get it’, she says, 'there's no justice,
there's no spirit of law’.

I know there is, that I see her blue feet
sticking out from pink plastic clogs,
her fag-butt hanging like
a burning sword on her thin, old lady lips.

‘I had to keep my strength up’, she laughs,
waves the White Lightning can like a wand
as I sigh at the thought of the paperwork,
how to justify using my discretion.

‘You’ve never been at the gate’,
she whispers, ‘never been through,
out of the neighbourhood,
somewhere worse than dreams’.

‘Look’, I say, ‘I’m here to try and help,
we can't have you being arrested again'.
She grins, shakes the can, sprays
the Controlled Drinking Zone sign.

I reach for her shoulder as she rears up:
‘If I'm not here I can't turn them back
with my body, with my being,
you're trying to trick me.'

She sucks on the can, shakes her head
at my blue uniform, my pointless presence,
my inability to restore
a world where she belonged.