|"Justice" by Giorgio Vasari [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons|
Upon the House floor
My hour is tainted by furies
that make me want to rage to Washington,
rage the Senate, and keep on raging
until all that remains be dust.
The blood in my veins poppy red—so, what,
as Louie wails, did I do to be so black and blue?
If I see red forgive me—let it be the red
of tulip blossoms, the fiery light within them
popping into spherical wonders, drifting off
to invade some militant’s
garden of thorns.
I chose a softer light of softer hues and tones;
I have no room for this assault, this corporate rebellion.
I blame you—daring to find the linens
worn bare, the holes in my pockets
just wide enough to reach your fingers through
and pull the last dime free.
I loathe politics. I love politicians, their hearts
and heads aflame with pathos and oration.
I love to watch them graze the House floors,
preach and persuade with words that make
the coolest heart swell like bellies
from that last swilling
of water from the well.
My time is wasted—my hour is gone.
All I have left is silence.
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