Wistfully I long for the day
when the Emperor of America
forgoes the affairs of state and instead
sits all night at his lamp-lit desk
absorbed in composing sonnets in tribute
to a girl he’d admired as a schoolboy.
Sipping peppermint tea, lips silently moving
as he tries out tentative phrases,
he’ll tap on his desktop with his finger
the rhythm of his lines, creating harm
and cynical mischief for no one.