Misdemeanor + Speedometer

Misdemeanor is such a soft word. Filled with curves like the back highways in Autumn. Lulling you through the syllable count with the dips and rises of the m’s and n. The uncertain boundaries of the word can just dip off the road, blend with the woods and colors leaving only a blurry sense of how serious this could be.

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A third faulty speedometer ticket. When the judge called my name you stood behind me, a walled shadow of support. although the judge had just explained to the last dad that if your son is over the age of 18 they cannot be accompanied by an adult into the courtroom. the judge repeated himself to you. Your hands were folded and you quickly explained your fault in the matter. Politely the judge listened, nodded, and you sat back down. So I stood with no shadows as my faults were discussed. I made promises of college, of leaving the state, of parking my car and never letting it be seen again. I left the courtroom with a faulty speedometer ticket, my speedometer worked just fine. As we left, you walked behind me again with a pride as if in the light of the judge’s bench I had shown some brilliance.