The Portraits

At the museum, the portraits are hung Of presidents, staring ahead, A few of them still drawing breath, but by now, Most have been, for a lot of years, dead. Some I studied in school, some I knew not at all, Others served while I have been alive And the artists’ depictions were varied in style, Though to capture the truth, they did strive. In the midst of all men, just one woman appeared - It was Eleanor Roosevelt, but why? Not a president, true, though my fingers are crossed She’ll have company yet, by and by.