POEM: The House
Outside, the roof of the house
points skyward,
it reaches far and near as it presses on,
sea-green dome
green against clear blue skies,
a picture postcard,
its mahogany doors,
whitewashed walls
screen the chambers,
you can’t hear the sergeant at arms
calling the house to order.
I am sitting in the lower room of the house,
a tourist with a camera.
Once it was hallowed,
not this house
I am focusing so intensely on.
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