The following poem first appeared in Pemmican.

"Step up," the guard says,
"get your hot justice,
served daily." Her wand
reads my body, leaves
my mind secure.
I empty my pockets:
ibuprofen, seventy-two cents,
three stolen ballpoints,
two receipts,
wallet,
keys.

Criminals
and traffic violators,
we check in together,
paperwork in hand.
Each of us has a story-
Nah, reasons, bro'-
why we don't belong here.

We share
yawns, pens, and Boston
Heralds as we wait to be
called into Room 152,
wondering
what the bald girl did;
if he thinks a pierced lip
and shells in wild
dreadlocked hair
make him look innocent;
and whether a silk shirt
with French seams is good
to wear to court.