HHS

A horde of smokers draped across the planters
sitting in their blue haze in the graceful curve

of the building’s frontage. As I came close,
a freckling tourist laughed and took an iPhone picture

her other hand curled around a bottle of water,
with minerals added for the taste of fresh rocks.

I wondered if she could see what I always tried,
what Wikipedia took pains to mention, that

the architecture is Egyptian Revival. You picture
pyramids and Karnak and the women all wearing strap-on

beards, but there is little to untrained eyes but the odd
static frieze above the door, the eyes migrated to the ears’

edges, the feet oddly heel to toe. A man echo
laughed, his arm a sweep of ember

and trailing grey. ‘Health and Human Services!”
he crowed. “Oh we are a picture!” And the crowd,

their eyes migrating to the north, to the tourist
whose sandals flapped against C Street’s quiet sidewalks,

seemed torn between glaring and laughing, between
anger and joy. And chose joy.