My Judge

I called him my judge

Not the judge

Because when I was a law clerk

Getting him coffee

Researching his opinions

Following him as he went in and out of the courtroom

In his black robes

I adored him. I mean

He was brilliant, a first amendment scholar, a star

Full of portly bonhomie

A native son from the wrong side of the tracks.

He smoked cigarettes with flair

Told filthy jokes and war stories.

He once asked me early on

What I thought he would be if he wasn’t a judge

I think he wanted me to answer, a senator, a professor

Something like that

But I said, a bartender.

Because he was Irish and drank whiskey and was convivial.

A few years later when I was a lawyer

He died

Too many cigarettes, too much whiskey

Too much bonhomie.

Probably too much adoration.

About Karen To and Fro

Everything you didn't want to know about me!
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