I think if you look at yesterday's New York Times poll

Host: The television light flickered in the dim bar, washing the walls in hues of blue and amber. The air smelled of rain-soaked concrete and cheap whiskey, and the buzz of a late-night news broadcast echoed through the room. Outside, the city was still wet, its streets reflecting the glow of neon and headlights like shattered glass.

At the counter, Jack nursed his drink, his grey eyes fixed on the TV where a political commentator gestured dramatically over a poll chart. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, listening more than watching, her expression a quiet blend of curiosity and unease.

Host: The screen flashed the words: “New York Times Poll: Faith in Congress Remains Divided — Democrats Lead Slightly.”

Jeeny: “John Podesta said something once — about people putting ‘a little more faith, or even a little more than a little more faith,’ in Democrats than Republicans. Funny, isn’t it? Even faith in politics has to be measured in fractions now.”

Jack: (smirking) “Fractions are all that’s left of faith, Jeeny. Nobody believes in wholes anymore — not in God, not in truth, and certainly not in Congress.”

Host: The bartender turned up the volume, the poll numbers scrolling across the screen like a ticker of disillusionment.

Jeeny: “You’re too cynical, Jack. Maybe people still have hope. Maybe that ‘little more’ is the only realistic faith left — not blind belief, but cautious trust.”

Jack: “That’s not faith, Jeeny. That’s settlement. You don’t trust someone because you believe in them anymore — you trust them because they’re just slightly less disappointing than the other option.”

Jeeny: “That’s still a choice, isn’t it? And choice is where democracy lives. Maybe the poll doesn’t measure faith; maybe it measures resilience.”

Host: Rain tapped against the window, soft, rhythmic, persistent — like the heartbeat of a city that had seen too much but still kept going. A couple in the corner argued quietly, their voices rising, falling, merging with the sound of news and rain.

Jack: “You think resilience explains this mess? The same voters who trust one side today will turn against them tomorrow. It’s not resilience — it’s amnesia.”

Jeeny: “Or forgiveness, Jack. You always see corruption, never grace. Maybe people forgive because they still want to believe that the system can heal itself.”

Jack: “Heal itself? Come on, Jeeny. The system is the infection. These polls, this language of ‘a little more faith’ — it’s like measuring how slowly we’re drowning.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Then maybe that’s what it means to be American — to keep swimming, even when the water’s rising.”

Host: Jack looked away, his jaw tightening. The television now showed footage of senators arguing, their faces animated, their words empty but confident.

Jack: “You ever think we’ve mistaken faith for brand loyalty? These polls — they’re not about belief in ideas anymore. They’re about identity. Politics has turned into tribal merchandise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But identity isn’t always shallow. Sometimes it’s memory — of who we’ve trusted, who we’ve lost, who we’ve fought for. Maybe when people say they have ‘a little more faith’ in Democrats, they’re remembering the times someone tried to care.”

Jack: “Tried, failed, and sold the same promises next election. You ever read the 1968 Gallup Poll, Jeeny? Faith in government was over 70%. Today, it’s barely 20. That’s not progress — that’s erosion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s honesty, Jack. People aren’t blind anymore. Maybe disbelief is a sign of growth. Faith doesn’t have to mean obedience. It can mean expectation — the hope that things can still change.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming against the glass with a restless urgency. The TV flickered, the signal crackling, as if the city’s static was arguing with itself.

Jack: “You talk about hope, Jeeny, but look around. Every newsfeed is a warzone of narratives. Politicians don’t speak — they perform. Voters don’t think — they react. And these polls, they’re just mirrors held up to our fear.”

Jeeny: “Fear can be productive. It can wake people up. Every movement in history started with fear — of injustice, of tyranny, of loss. The civil rights marches, the women’s vote, the Vietnam protests — all born from doubt. And doubt, Jack, is just faith’s shadow.”

Jack: (his voice softening) “You always find a way to redeem the ruin, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Someone has to. Otherwise, the numbers become the narrative.”

Host: The bartender switched channels, and now an old speech filled the room — Kennedy, crisp voice, black-and-white image, speaking of service, of duty, of nation. The room fell silent. Even the rain seemed to listen.

Jack: (quietly) “You think that kind of language still works today?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it still hurts — in the best way. Because it reminds us of what we’ve lost.”

Jack: “Or what we’ve outgrown.”

Jeeny: “No. What we’ve forgotten to feel. We’re so busy measuring faith that we’ve forgotten how to hold it.”

Host: A thunderclap rolled across the sky, shaking the bottles on the shelf. The lights dimmed, and for a moment, only the glow of the TV lit their faces.

Jack: “So tell me, Jeeny — if you were in that poll, who would you trust?”

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “Not a party. A person. Anyone who still listens more than they speak. Maybe that’s where the faith belongs now — not in institutions, but in individuals who still care.”

Jack: “Individuals can be bought too.”

Jeeny: “Then we keep looking for the ones who won’t. Because if we stop, we’ve surrendered.”

Host: The rain softened, the storm’s rage now a whisper. The TV muted itself in a sudden blackout, and the room sank into shadow, lit only by the neon outside — red, blue, white, blinking like a flag in distress.

Jack: “You think there’s still a flag left to believe in?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not a flag. But there’s still a voice. Still a vote. Still a chance.”

Host: Jack watched her, the reflection of neon light catching in her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of his skepticism lifted — just slightly.

Jack: “A little more faith,” he murmured. “Maybe that’s how it starts.”

Jeeny: “Always,” she said, her voice a whisper drowned in rain. “Every revolution, every resurrection, starts with just — a little more faith.”

Host: The storm cleared, the bar hushed, and the first light of morning spilled through the door. The city was still broken, but the voices — faint, uncertain, human — still spoke, still voted, still believed, if only by a fraction.
And in that fraction, in that almost, in that little more, something like hope still breathed.