the west wing

your trip
to the white
house, was un
eventful. there
was mild surprise
at how drabby
and cold, and
bland the oval
office was, full of
furniture your
grandmother would
love, old, bent,
wallpaper circa
ninety-eighty,
the thick musty
rug. pictures
of ships, sheep
grazing. what
gives? in
contrast to
the secret service,
patting you down,
taking your id,
your name, your
number. young
and strong, with
crew cuts,
in their starched
white shirts
and badges, and
guns. and finally
down the corridor
you go, after
the third check
point. to nowhere,
just to a velvet rope,
and a bored agent
staring into her
i phone, pointing,
look in there,
without even
looking up at us.
no one is home. it's
taken eight minutes,
if that, so
you go have a drink
or three at the
Old Ebbitt grill
and shake your
collective heads.