At The Mansion Poem by Hans Ostrom

my candelabras are clandestine.

they hang from whining beams

in this derelict mansion, ready

for their close-ups, Mr. DeMille.



sometime you must visit.

we'll waltz a bit like half-

cracked aristocrats, apres

Revolution, sans portfolio.



sagging splendor. tawdry times.

we'll alert the neighbors

about a shotgun marriage

of sweat and perfume, the



pretensions and the practicality

of self-taught lunacy, all decked

out in tuxedos and gowns bought

at flea markets. RSVP, or not.