The affairs of state are such intimate kisses,
the ravenousness inside only hinted at in the pictures.
We can hear the malnourished mistress but we never see her face;
the concessions that they press are someone else’s pillow talk.
Their wars disturb my sleep but they are merely lover’s quarrels
where neighbors can make out a phrase or two,
and the unreciprocation, their contempt for our distress
is but a whispering note in a high-end dinner date
to complement the wine.
I look into your eyes and tell the history of all that is,
and the total past is prologue for our talking,
and we solve whatever problems there are festering
because we care to understand each other's viewpoint.
As we talk, people watch us eagerly from the aethers
and we smell the scents of heaven that imbue their evening rooms.
What we do seems to matter more to them than public speeches
for the real is the only thing, the only thing that matters,
and no one can forget that they are real.
