middle-finger-of-the-apocalypseCloaked in two suits, one of cloth,

The other partly of whole cloth,

I raise my hand and swear to tell,

So help me, God.

The day runs late, testimony interrupted,

My oath remains fixed, in place,

As I twist and fret in restless sleep.

So, help me, God.

A co-plaintiff almost made me cry

As he spoke in quiet rustic hues,

Like his pristine nudes in nature,

Of his art and defiance of warrantless

Entry, so help me God resist the anger

I feel at being labeled a liar even after

I’d raised my hand and sworn to tell the truth.

In their own sightless will to win, they took

Their oaths so lightly that embittered and entitled

They assumed treachery in my raised hand.

So help me God, because I cannot forget the slight.