The police constable/ poet in court
Tell us where you saw the accused.
At a place where two roads meet, I stood
and pondered on what path my life would take.
Where exactly were you standing?
At the corner, your honour, of Beach road and Main Street.
And when was this?
The sun had long-since dropped behind the mountain peak
and the moon’s rays were painting a silver path across the bay.
What time exactly?
Seven forty five, your honour
What was the accused doing?
His fingers, stretched like chicken’s claws,
clutched at the concrete rim, while his scant and spidery legs,
see-sawed, and scrabbled on the cemented surface.
I beg your pardon?
He was climbing over a wall, your honour.
What did he look like?
All sinisterly draped, dark as night, with features hid in black, concealing, fleece.
Could you repeat that in English?
Sorry, your honour, I meant to say he was wearing a black tracksuit and a balaclava.
And what did you do then?
I called upon the miscreant to render to me an account.
I said “You’re under arrest,” and hand cuffed him.