Aging Poet
The House is empty,
but he makes his speech.
His passion—can’t help that.
The benches hear.
He’s talking, anyway,
to those back home
don’t go to caucuses,
serve on committees,
work up critiques;
though in no mood for laughs
he sometimes feels
those passé headstones still
cast votes for him.
They are, still, there?
They did elect him?
Does he care
if the gavel sleeps? 