The eco-friendly former vice-president and his wife
are separating after forty years of marriage.
Maybe there’s a hippy chick involved—younger than their vows,
who wears Birkenstocks and licks sunrays when she wakes up.
Perhaps a studly intern’s name will emerge, whose purified pecs
greet the world before any other part of his body.
Most likely their love has died. Started evaporating the moment he wasn’t
elected president, unable to warm up to the idea of a life without spotlight.
Their bond slowly melting away
like the tips of polar icecaps.