 First, I'd like to thank Jack Hirschman and the friends of San Francisco Public Library. Jack is amazing with his energy, humanity, and passion for poetry. I am grateful for his generosity and continuing efforts for our communities. Baselet. In the far corner of the schoolyard, they assemble after school, a gang of boys in military-style uniforms, girls in sailor blouses and pleated skirts. The jury appears on this judgment day. The prisoner's crime, she's poor and dirty. She snatched persimmons from the principal's garden, stole money from the offertree box at the temple. Family of beggars under the bridge, a whore of a mother and a couple of bastard kids. The girl stands in front of the crowd, her neck and legs dusky with grime, hair matted and unruly, eyes crazed with fear and hate. Children closing on the condom, running the gauntlet. Thief, beggar, ugly bitch, whore, toss her around among them. Dazed and helpless, she flails her arms. The executioner beats her down to the ground. You die. The mob shouts in unison, roused. Die, die, die. One witness looks down at her, sprawled at their feet, hesitates for a moment, then joins the chanting. Die, you homeless bastard. The girl squirts on the ground, her skirt unfurled like a shield. She shuts her eyes to the world. Sound of gushing water, a stream running down the dirt path. Oh no, she's pissing, pissing like a horse. The yellow streak separates the crowd. They scatter, run. In the deserted schoolyard, Maple leaves rustle in the wind. Her knees bruised and naked, she wipes her nose with a sleeve and stands up, alone in an ocean of orange sunset. Thank you.