My numinous fans gather with suggestions
for new poems—like how did Mussolini
once have a Jewish girlfriend, and later
partner with Hitler, sending over seven
thousand Italian Jews to Auschwitz.
Later, my wife appears reading from
her journal meticulous accounts of how
our grandchildren were developing
as very young preschoolers. She’s pleased
to confirm what every longitudinal study
has found, that your temperment is largely
determined at birth. She improvises one of
her celebratory dances of joy, taking a bow,
shouting, Bravo, Bravissimo!
Why don’t you write a poem about it?
Ok, I say, I will get right on it.
See you soon.