Hell Friday Poem by James McLain

the hallway reeks of sweat,
cigarette ghosts, last week's arguments.
the clock ticks louder than the complaints,
and the coffee tastes like
an insult to coffee.

the public defender sits,
her shoulders bent like unpaid rent.
she's got eyes full of cases,
empty bank accounts,
and a pile of pleadings
thicker than justice could ever cut through.

the hustle and bustle is a dance
of poverty and desperation,
shoes worn thin, voices
pleading for mercy,
for rights the brochures promised
and always delivered.

it's Friday,
and hell doesn't take weekends off.