Justice Poem by DONALD SCHUSTER

The polished veneer looks a bit
Tarnished like the justice she seeks
Nothing so far has told her she
will be rewarded
Much the opposite will likely occur
So why? She keeps asking
A question she cannot answer,
The memories flood her,
The violence still so near
She can still hear her screams like a hollow funnel echoing
what no one will hear,
She grips the chair so tight blood curls
Under her nails,
Men, white men standing in passive indifference,
Waiting to unleash hypocrisy at her,
What would they know of her world filled
With hunger, literal hunger
One where your own mother would drift seldom seen
even during holidays, or schools where she fought with all her might to outlive gossip.
Here, standing in pressed and polished suits
were dad's the ones she had only read about,
Yet she was here to listen about what a tragedy had befallen
this brat of a boy, one who owed his privilege to genetic chance,
They described him as an angel who only mis stepped as if
he had simply made a wrong turn on a highway or ran a stop light,
If this brat screams for his justice
Will anyone hear her screams?

ES Donald