“Sometimes,” said the woman in red sitting outside the courthouse.
“Sometimes you gotta,” she said to her co-workers, the red jersey
Of her dress clinging to her ample curves while she kicked
The granite ledge where she sat amidst a din of everyone talking
At every one else, not listening, some smoking, but not eating, on a break
Of some kind. Maybe they were jurors not court staff or perhaps visitors.
Funny that they didn’t have some kind of badge, all of them talking.
All of them talking and looking like they did the same type of work or had something
In common, talking all at once to a group that was familiar, but didn’t care to listen.
Amidst the talking, too many at once, and the clacking of her heels, like a kid, against
The granite ledge, “sometimes you just gotta be quiet,” she said to nobody listening.