When We Must Make Ends Meet

On the day of the trial

I was vehemently called

as a dutiful witness

to speak what I had saw.

I recalled a gruesome murder

blood and a knife and a street

and I saw the murderer’s face

as clear as a cube of glass.

“Ah, Mr. Fibber,” said the judge,

“Please tell us what you saw.”

The air felt tense and

the patient crowd in front of me

was all that brought this moment.

I looked at the victim’s family’s crying faces,

then at the defendant in cuffs,

then at the prosecutor nodding to me,

then at the defense attorney hiding a smirk.

“Well,” said the judge,

“Please do go on, Mr. Fibber.”

“I didn’t see anything,” I said, as

I felt the money 

the defense attorney gave

me last night

deep within my pocket.

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