The Judge

(Note: This poem was inspired by one word that came up when President Obama spoke about his criteria for selecting a Supreme Court Justice; Empathy.  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.  Including me.)

The mirror reflects      nothing

other than a purplish, bulbous nose,

decalcified and scarred still

by decades old acne

preserved in alcohol,

hanging high above

desiccated lips,

and deeply carved creases

racing downward,

merging with flaccid dewlaps

framing a crinkly stubble cleft of chin

that quivers now, even in wakefulness.

Under heavy protruding brows 

grown wild,

merging with each other,

sprout wiry hairs 

like a neglected garden,

from inside ears, nostrils,

and deep creases, long invisible

to cloudy, rheumy eyes.

Altogether, an almost Neander-like visage,

topped by a marbleized,

domelike pate and

staring, bulging eyes,

hidden beneath hoods -- ancient, bristly folds of skin --

reflecting nothing;

a countenance framed

by pendulous ears that seem to grow,

even as bones shrink,

joints calcify.

He doesn’t recognize this face,

even as he stretches and twist his mouth,

bulges his eyes, straining

until his thin black veins pulsate,

and flares his nostrils,

and sticks out his hoary tongue.

Still, no spark of recognition,

no gentle reassurance,

no compassion or sympathy offered.

Void of history and dreams,

reflecting a life so insular, of

so little time spent imagining the lives of others,

empathy eludes him,

even when he is in most need of it himself.