[PancakeBrah]

Aspergers (Am I the only one rhyming?)
or, Case #0025616723

"Is this desk mahogany or oak?"
My lawyer ignored it as some misanthropic joke.
"It looks like mahogany."

I noticed how the prosecutor's coffee simmered,
how him and the plaintiff always talked in whispers,
and how awkward whispers sounded in a crowded place.
I saw an e-mail from my lawyer, once, about the case,
saying "This client is off in space, lost in Mars."
But that was ridiculous, if I were cast aloft in stars
I'd die from suffocation, or cold, whichever happened first.
The place was as solemn and serious as hands clasped in church,
and an American flag was perched above a judge who looked like Captain Kirk.
I thought about bringing a fan, just a box type of cage,
so those stars and stripes would wave with the oscillating blades,
because color this Martian as amazed, but nothing's as stupid
as a still hanging flag, jutting from the wall like an ugly protuberance.
I asked the lawyer about the fan, he seemed indifferent.
Maybe more annoyed than indifferent. He dismissed it,
a lot like the mahogany query.

The plaintiff wore a suit, the cuff links a golden rose bouquet,
bursting petals tied in knot, dyed up rot exposed and brazed,
with the initials i.s. etched like some headstone engraved,
and the topmost petals intertwined in cold embrace.
I stared at them for hours. Hours of objections and speeches,
wondering how the smith casted and perfected the creases.
See, each stem matched the bloom above the knotted tie,
and the calligraphy was romantic, above all the dotted i.
He, the plaintiff, Tim? Sure. He would cast disgusted glances,
but they were much prettier to look at than the rusted granite
of the walls, or the linoleum tiles on the floor, patterned in white or black.
I wanted to touch those links, I figured he might retract. So I would fight it back,
the urge, and try to catch the lighting right and bask in their glow.
Honestly, I was in passionate throes. But I suppose that's just how a masochist goes.
I loved those hours, staring at an auric embodiment eloped,
resting opposed at a different desk of mahogany/oak.

--

Prosecutor-
"Where were you the night Isabelle Sumer was murdered?"

I-
"Tim, where did you get those cuff links? No, it's a matter of when.
After she died? A week? After your heart's pitter patter had dimmed?
A piece like that, that takes weeks. It's not like it's casted in tin,
so how long removed from your wife's death did you internally think
'Let's go to the jeweler and get some gold, with her initials in permanent ink?'"

Prosecution-
"Objection. The defendant is not answering the question your honor."

Judge-
"Sustained. The defendant will answer the question or be in contempt of court, considering his prior behavior."

Prosecutor-
"Again, where were you the night Isabelle Sumer was murdered?"

I-
"I was stabbing Isabelle. Repeatedly. Stabbing her, then stabbing her more,
in the back of her car, her spine cracked against the backside passenger door.
I stabbed her stomach, and breast, and ribs, and face,
I stabbed her until the very blush of her cheek drained, every little trace.
She didn't even scream, she just sobbed until it would end,
When I killed her it was so easy I wish I could kill her again.
Her mascara ran dried streams, and her eyelashes were perfectly plucked,
and when her body finally went limp I could embrace her, in a hug.
And although she couldn't breathe, and she ceased to speak,
I swear to God, her heart did one last beat for me.
I want those cuff links, Tim."

--

I enjoy this cell,
although the lawyer is somewhat miffed I didn't just plead guilty.
Miffed might be the wrong word. Overtly aggravated, really.
I suppose I could've avoided Captain Kirk, and ambled awkwardly
to this fate, but those beautiful trappings of sub judice would've been lost to me.