The Home of Truth
Brian Hiortdahl
Seekers for truth need look no farther than
The corner of Alameda and Grand.
Here stands the Home of Truth. Who knew Truth dwelt
In a two-story, faded white clapboard,
A local metaphysical bookstore?
I would have thought Truth would share time, at least,
Having perhaps a summer home back east.
My rancor masked the jealousy I felt
That Truth would move into a larger space
Than the cramped studio inside my head.
Outside Truth's fixer-upper, a sign read:
"All are welcome." I stared back into space
At the wide, unfolding blanket of night
'Neath which we all are tucked. The sign was right.
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