Here's a poem.
It's called "At the Night Court."
Big cities have courts that go on all night,
that sort of scene.
You've combed yourself carefully,
your honor, with a small, fine tooth comb you then cleverly
concealed before making your entrance in the splendor
of your black robes.
The comb tucked inside a handkerchief,
scented with the extract of dead roses,
where you took your high seat, sternly
eyeing each of the accused in the hush
of the empty courtroom.
The dark, curly hairs in the comb
did not come from your graying head, one of the cleaning women
used it on herself when you dozed off
in your chamber, half undressed because of the heat.
The black comb in the pocket over the heart,
you feel it tremble, just as ours do when they ready
themselves to make music, lacking
only the paper you're signing, by the looks of it with eyes
closed.