Bleeding Hearts

The house is in shambles, rock foundation
crooked and leaning to the left, whitewash
wearing thin.  Flowers hide the slanting stoop
and Bleeding Hearts that drip jewel-like from
green vines cover over the dissolving
dream—pretty, so very, very pretty,
but so very, very temporary.

 Here you are all dressed in white, like a bride,
out on the porch among the Bleeding Hearts
in see-through white lace—but what’s under there,
underwear clean enough for a car wreck—
pretty enough to show, not a teensy
bit wrinkled or a little bit smelly?
Are we in need of a wash and line dry—
to air out the slimy facts, so to speak?
Or do you flat out need a change?  So, change
the color, but don’t wear white, for God’s sake!

Here you stand, all dressed up in correctness,
atop sagging stairs with flowers and beads
and camouflage—and Bleeding Hearts starting
to droop in summer heat.  You call for change.
Well, get the emperor some new clothes and
paint the house red.