Shabby Mansion

Shabby mansion —
we’re so tired we are
starting to shake
more than usual;

afraid
of icecaps and ice tea,
we fear
children of various kinds

whether they’re on
magazine covers
or on our streets
after dark.  We justify

anything from Listeners
to Watchers to
Robot Killers based on
our need to be

Absolutely Safe.  Of that
we sing, reiterating
that the banner 
continues to wave

through it all: 
our very theme song
derives from
a siege mentality.

But the view
from the windows,
the view
from the porch:  

still a prayer worth
raising, a waning
wilderness but still
worthy of awe —

what say we burn
the old house down,
camp here, build something
more modest?  

Maybe this time
we can treat
our neighbors better,
give up our fear of Dark?

Maybe there’s something
to be said for dancing
around a fire?
Perhaps its light will validate

the ash left when we burn open 
gates and walls.
Think of what faces we see
within the word

“us” — how many
do we let in?  The children we kill 
by gun and by drone
are children we ought
to call our own, no matter

who bore them or where 
we find them — they
are in our hands,
in our yards,

waiting 
to enter the light
from the cleansing fire,
and they’ll come

whether we invite them
or not, whether or not
we keep the shabby mansion
intact or burn it down.