I Rest My Case, Your Worship. Poem by Alistair Plint

This is my final testimony, presented to the court.



We drove a car home
walked into a house
dressed in clothes
ate food, drank grouse

Both of their jokes
sucked bad, as they could
leaving audiences gasping
worse than crickets would

He stood at the door
with a Garfield's grin
she peered in the window
looking ridiculously thin

He pulled out a gun
aimed, squeezing the trigger
she threw knives at his
loud, anorexic figure

A bullet went past
fetching sweat from my face
a blade stole a hair as it
flew above head-space

He fell to the floor
in a pool of red blood
she crumbled in pain
landing in the flash flood

I froze in the ice
looking left, then right
wondering if I had
seen that slow-motion fight

Truth is your worship
try as I might
I can't tell who died first
that ice cold, night




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