We can’t of course see what’s
going on in the courtroom but
our sources inside the room are
relaying everything they see.
The most-indicted ex-president
in American history has been
led into the room and
our sources tell us that he is
staring straight ahead—it’s difficult—
quite difficult, to process
exactly what this means but
everyone here remains hushed
and full of trepidation waiting
for any sign of movement on
his face—an eyebrow, a twitch, or that
wrinkled chin he wears when
he’s pleased with himself—
no sign of that at the moment but
we will remain here blocking the
sidewalk, with our cameras aimed at the
courthouse door waiting
for the latest—we’re hearing now he
just moved his lips—his face more
orange than expected—our sources
believe he may have whispered a
word or possibly he was just
belching.
About the Poem
Watching television coverage of Donald Trump’s arraignment in Washington for his third criminal indictment, these were the things I heard: recounting of charges, speculation about court dates, and predictions of delay tactics on the part of the accused. What I saw: police standing in front of the courtroom, clogged traffic, then long and boring footage from inside a vehicle near the back of his motorcade driving back to the airport, and I thought—this isn’t news gathering, this is a kind of media adoration, an obsessive honouring of every movement of a bad actor.
About the Author
William Ross is a Canadian writer whose poems have been published in the United States and Australia.