it hides in an iron frame above the death pit in my living room.
a massive, iron casted frame—
thicker than the skin of a Viking,
heavier than the bluest of seas.
to me, it’s my everything, the frame,
because, to me, it’s my portrait—changing quicker than the New England skies.
at times, in it, sits a gas-fed hurricane.
at others, there lays, the silliest goose in the world.
but sometimes, the not-so-very-rare-times, my face doesn’t appear in the iron-casted-frame at all.
it’s just blank. Empty. Mr. Nothing himself.
all the while,
my guests and their families.
the dog and its friends,
walk about the room where it hangs,
seeing nothing but the blankest of walls.