May 24, 2011
Out in the waiting area,
my flight delayed yet another two hours,
the television tells us,
of a mother accused of killing her
She stands under the barrage of accusations,
and the hateful stares of a hundred million watchers,
as her stupidity is framed as malice,
and her malice framed as tragic mistakes.
Too much tragedy.
A beautiful girl,
the same age as the long-gone victim,
cavorts among the chairs
can’t be more than 15 – although I suppose
they must be, since they carry
camo bags with their name on them
and combat boots and official-looking envelopes –
sit hunched quietly in their seats,
stoically staring into their
In the bar,
the only drama is the unexpected
upset of John Isner
and, more immediately,
what flavor I’ll choose for my chicken wings.
Back at the gate,
the trial continues.
The young former mother stands,
endures the caustic words,
her attorney sacrifices her dignity
in exchange for her freedom,
saying, yes, she’s a terrible mother
but not a
The tears roll
down her cheeks.
The press calls her a crocodile
and practically glows with excitement
at her tragedy.