Soiled Notes by Tatiana Pahlen

Soiled Notes
By Tatiana Pahlen

I see his eyes far from earth
following every boat;
from the chair at Sandy Hook,
dreamy and remote,
he holds my hand and sips cold Coors
soiling on my notes;
both agree not to speak of wars
putting to rest our fears.
Therefore we sealed the iron doors
that went on slamming in each other's face
as we unveiled our votes.
What's in a name of an old dispute
which party one belongs,
if the views are the same
in the world's pursuits?
I close my eyes
and dream of lands
where sails his passing boat,
knowing, he wears in his seaman's heart
me – his Penelope.