by John Grey
They’re always walled of course,
high enough so that only
the tip of the second floor
and the mansard roof is visible.
In medieval times,
a moat and drawbridge
would have separated them
from the commoners.
But they’d have been royalty then,
not MBA’s.
It’s a solid wall.
It’s a wall that could have repelled armies,
kept those inside out of harm’s way,
in another age.
I won’t go into all of that
‘built on the backs of workers’ malarkey.
Such talk went out with Marx and Engels.
I prefer the simpler image
of a poet standing outside the large metal gates,
trying to get a better view that way
but the house blocked by trees.
Normally he would write about greenery
such as this.
But, in this case, he doesn’t.
So nothing is risen from a mere seed,
stands tall in its trunk,
sighs in the wind, sheds resinous,
spreads branches wide and lush.
A poem about the home of a CEO
is ultimately a work
in which beauty is made meaningless
by connotation.
Only the wall emerges with any credit.
[More poems by John Grey]
[Check out John’s backporch wisdom here]
