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 agreed speak not of wars
putting to rest our fears.
Therefore we seal the iron doors,
that went on slamming in each other's face
as we unveil our votes.
What's in a name of an old dispute
which party one belongs,
if the views stay the same
in the world's pursuits?
I close my eyes
and dream of lands
where sails his passing boat,
certain, he wears in his seaman's heart –
Me – his Penelope.