Old Man John

a poem for the quintessential House guy

Wild eyes wide beholding the maker —

God-haunted.

White woolen tufts of hair on his cheeks,

growing whiter still as he speaks and seeks

justice for his fellow man,

prosecuting a holy war on the House floor

against the proud South, with its vainglory

and bloody hands.

Listen close, listen close, like he did:

You can almost hear him, still, when it’s

quiet in the old chamber at night.

Whispers, ghosts

after the tours have passed by.

“Nay,” the world-treader grumbles

then keels over, halting a vote

like he stopped so many others

before.

Old man eloquent, mad old man, the abolitionist,

spoken with respect or a sneer, depending on

who you asked.

He didn’t waver,

not when accused of treason

or nearly censured.

And where he faced those fell foes —

heard their cries of “Order!”

Smelled the whiskey, decayed tobacco

on fetid breaths

Saw their knives drawn at his words,

the glint of light from jagged blades —

the dead eyes of confederates

now stare down at their descendants,

and those of the once-enslaved.

He would throw those idols to the ground,

given the chance.

Cast them to the floor, cracked, crushed,

into the dust, for he believed in the prophesied

end to that sin, that false, heartless doctrine.

When I walk past the spot where he died

almost hearing his voice through time,

I miss him sharply. As if he were a friend of mine.

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