The first day of Torts we read a case
of justice denied to somebody’s Auntie
who fell on her ass.
A few years later I nailed
my diploma to the wall,
scattered magazines
in the waiting room, interviewed
a desperate, weeping woman,
and with the intensity of a novice
adopted her angst, grasped her hand,
put on my sneakers and rushed her
to the court that had just tossed her out.
The weeping woman watched as I carved
a moment from empty space
arguing, advocating, quoting, and citing,
until the judge cut off my lofty plea:
Counselor,
he barked,
you cannot come into my courtroom in sneakers.
At that moment I remembered poor dear
Auntie and understood
justice denied.
Your Honor,
I stuttered softly,
We are here as a matter of right, not at your invitation.
The courtroom din stopped.
The weeping woman stopped.
A lifetime of seconds passed.
Fine,
the judge growled, next time show more respect, now get to the point.
That was the point, I thought.