They’re all gone now—those thirty-six
gladiators who stood on the steps in
dark helmets and shields, ruining Lincoln’s view.
The only person left
is a woman cleaning up the mess
with a mop.  And a mask.
Lydia, her nametag says.
Earlier, she’d scrubbed the graffiti:
Y’all not tired yet? off the wall.

She thinks Lincoln’s sat in that chair,
had a front row seat
to history long enough.
You can’t just sit there, she says,
now that you’re woke.
Get up.  Show us what you got.

Lydia sets down her mop.
She can see that a hundred years
in a hard chair has settled some
in his hips. She shares
that particular pain, holds
out her hand to him.

​

He thinks she must be a nurse, so he
grips her arm, and slowly, ever
so slowly, rises up until he stands,
28 feet from his head without his hat
down to his size twelve shoes.

She helps him navigate
all 57 steps, then 87 more to the edge
of the reflecting pool.
A Kennedy half-dollar
she once threw in for King, for hope,
still shines from the bottom.

What time is it? he asks. What country?
Take a look, she says,
the South is rising all over again right across the river,
and the better angels have long since hit the road.

 

At seven score and eight
long years from Gettysburg,
twenty score since that first ship
from Angola to Virginia;
he’s out of his depth here,
even though the five feet of water
he’s wading into now comes only to his knees.

Some went too far, she says.
I didn’t go far enough, he admits,
halfway turning around.

​

I know, she replies. …but still…
It was a lot for those times,
considering you got shot for it.
She urges him onward.

We just buried George… she says.
…and I don’t mean Washington.
They pick up the pace, heading for
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,
arriving at the gate out of breath, limping.

You go on ahead, she says, knowing
she’ll never get any closer tonight
without becoming invisible.
Abraham, she reminds him, hurry.
There’s someone robbing our house.

 

He pushes through the fence in a fury,
and throws all his weight
against the White House, braces
his back against the front door.

It’s five minutes ‘til midnight now;
she’s watching him.
Someone or something is pounding—
he can feel the blows in his back
as he gives his last full measure
to bar this particular portal.
On the other side, something hoots

and howls in epithets, throws
condiments at the wall.
No matter what,
the thing that got itself in there,
should not be allowed to get back out.
A house divided
against itself cannot stand.
He can still see Lydia, her face
behind the bars of the locked gate.
You can fool all the people
some of the time, and some
of the people all the time, but
you cannot fool all the people
all the time, she calls out.
He nods.  He said that.  It’s still true.
She is counting on him
she’s going to hold him to it,
even if there is a man with a gun
over there.  Immortal in marble,
he’s more than ready.
He’s bullet-proof now.

​

​

​