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.
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