the president of peace

his advisers advise: war is mighty unpopular,
people get squeamish when we bomb children
and play god with governments and of course
their disgust evolves to outrage once they learn
that they're the ones footing the bill.

so he promised peace
lifting the people onto his shoulders
showing them that the horizon line
isn't so far as we'd believed

and the people believed in peace
and the people argued for peace
and the people voted for peace

so the president of peace wins
and is sworn in
and the warmth of peace
perceived fills the body politic
like a soothing serum

then the president goes through
those doors, the doors which
all presidents have passed through,
into the enclave of maps and missions,
where the globe in the center of the room
spins furiously, never stopping,
and the president of peace pausing,
absorbing all, advice and threats receiving,
sees the intelligence gathering,
hears the masses whispering,
on his tongue the taste of bombing,
in his head the sweep of mourning,

yet when the president emerges from the room
you can see in his eyes
that what was promised is slipping,
that our war is perpetually continuing