Sipping Irish Mist in a London Fog

a few weeks after

the coronation

the old ambassador

of one of the few

remaining democratic nations

sent a cable to

his dysfunctional home office

reporting on the status

of treaty renegotiations

to end the war

that hadn't started

warned the prime minister

that the new emperor

neither drinks nor thinks

relies entirely

on his substantial gut

and the ingratiating opinions

of fawning oligarchs

prefers expensive blue suits

has rarely donned

his crown of gold

which the emperor jokes

he intends to melt or hawk

suggested to the pm

and the exterior secretary

that a satisfactory resolution

to the imagined conflict

might be possible

if we are willing to give up

what we care most about

and don't ask for much

all in the service

of salvaging

the remnants of

the old-world order

preserving for posterity

what's left of

the third planet

maintaining for

the leaders of

our once great country

the comfort and security

of a warm fire

in paneled rooms

slightly inebriated

a bit off kilter

to better weather

these chilly

days and nights

of mist and fog