—James Comey, June 8, 2017 

You call up the stairs to tell me what we’ll need
to make it through the long night ahead.
The water’s running and I can hardly hear,
though you’re known to remind me
to listen and to hear were never the same.
No matter—we know this part always ends 
in a caustic, Nevermind.
I do hear you slam the door
and imagine your short, but hearty sigh 
before heading off into your day. 

I’m alone and now I can make mine the way I’d like—
slowly with a teaspoon and a little cream, 
though, Lordy, I hope there are tapes
for later when I get to the grocery
and this great forgetfulness is bound to come over me
once surrounded by the bounty of America:
shelves stacked with goods, 
no one could ever use, given even a lifetime;
the produce shaped into so many pyramids
we’d once hoped to visit, but now know we never will;
the prepared foods, chilled, and ready 
to be reheated and consumed
but where should we put them if left uneaten 
when our day is done?

This is a great land with so many choices
of who to believe and why, and infinite possibilities of what to buy,
so please don’t berate me when I call you again
to ask what I need to bring.
I know we already have everything
and are likely still to feel we’ve been taken, and underserved,
and finally, and fatally, misunderstood.
Though, Lordy, I hope there are tapes
of the ill-remembered night so long ago 
when we fell into each other’s arms.