His House Poem by David Taylor

the front reserved for special guests
tradesmen shown the back
the letter box earmarked, no junk mail
the widows neatly dressed
the blooming buttons sit in neat rows
and topiary'd bushes sculpted to impress
line the swept and pristine face
with each brick so firmly held in place
each feature speaks of wealth
but speaks not to me
the cameras' eyes smile securely
move with stealth
monitoring my apprehension, pensively
a fine imposing mansion
a moated castle of ostentation
no I did not like the way he dressed
or spoke or looked
not at all impressed.