It had to be frustration for the two of them, dining
at their local pasta joint, intimate but tense,
barely tasting the chianti, or the bolognese, him,
or cacciatore, her, hands clenched but not inside
each others -- over Hillary and faithfulness -- a struggle
that had gotten out of hand when dormant ghosts
were piqued and truth could not be found in wine
or comfort in their homey meal, for there was too much
to assail, protect, to stand on ceremonies or the fence,
until in anger and disgust they rose to go,
her to the Ladies, him to Gents.