The Human Judge Poem by RIC BASTASA

AFTER A serious business of the day
when he alters fortunes and liberties and
slays what others conceive to be monsters

he pauses for a while,
looks at the pale green blinders
and sighs for silence and asks himself

am i fair? am i right?

IT IS hard.
The questions confront him
as though he is still a kid
and can be fooled at times by the
orderly presentation of the eloquent
and the shining logic of those who
are trained to be so,
He listens to the
voice within
the one which is
both comforting
and safe and then he tells himself:

i am fair. I am right.
I am doing the best of what i can
do under these circumstances.


Then he stands up to find his old pair of shoes
on the side of the door
arranges his worn collar,
trims his beard,
and glances at all these
cautionary fixtures
in the mirror.

He closes the books that he opened.
Shuts the computer off.

He leaves the room,
enters his car and
whistles his way
towards home.