She daydreams
while he speaks
because she realizes
the thing is ending.

His calm betrays him—
a quisling
inviting the mobilization
in which their Maginot love
crumbles not under bombardment
but in a revolution of velvet and
roses.

They fought this phony war—
mutual appeasement,
peace in our time,
the diplomat’s kiss upon each cheek.

If he could stop
intoning petty diplomacies—
Spitfire for their love
on the land, in air, in sea
house to house, hand to hand,
perhaps the invading rot
would not force them into
the ghetto of spent tea and
flat, nasal pleasantries.

She looks at her watch as he
talks about Munich.
She fantasizes about new love,
as Warsaw falls.