The White House

The White House

Squeezed in the alcove for time in the parlor,
A few entities met eyes in conversation often past due,
As well as personable ones left a palm chair for new guests.
While radio talk met lunch every day but Sunday,
Silence withstood readiness before loading-off some silly incantations,
Proving patience before shooting the true story.
The head of the house always tendered the ending phrase,
And allowed dismissal, everyone rose.
In the deep ocean of the aquarium, the scalar showed off.
Scrutinizing the living room,
Laying eyes on the painting of miss eighteen century;
The right hand-held fan blushing,
And the left hand resting on her lap
Displaying the ring finger with a cut all around it;
A thin, deep, red scar.
Miss twentieth century painting next room,
A white ribbon lacing her curly hair;
The brunet, head tilted,
Her hair lying on the shoulders.
It hung there, still, since the first time seen.
Over two thresholds, a large kitchen,
With only one chair to grab to reach a higher shelf
To find chocolate after school delicacy;
However, often a little reward,
Temptation had taste bud made it all disappear.
A hundred times the aftermath was hand written;
Once more one invite scolded a ten year old.
Climbing soft steps, passing the Du, the books,
And around the piano,
To the third floor going back in time,
Up to the ladder of the attic,
Where milk-teeth sometimes pleased mice
Never spotted, for someone had left a candy.

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