My apologies from
I have not managed to tame this poem,
these scattershot words masquerading as art.
It started as a brief description
of an Italian man who carves a doll
for his granddaughter, freckled and five,
from a pine log found in the Apennines.
I grew distracted with that rhyme—
pine and Apennine—
and my mind wandered like an untethered balloon.
Suddenly I was in St. Peter’s Square
listening to the Pope, who I think is the cat’s pajamas,
as he spoke from the balcony to a gaggle
and pilgrims who had come to find solace
in papal blessings and a carafe of chianti.
I was already in Italy,
so I went with the flow and kept writing.
My Spanish is ramshackle roughshod,
and my Italian never materialized
from the quantum field of linguistic potential,
so my free verse ended in a poetic
I entered a Vatican museum but stumbled
into Dan Brown, who positively insisted
that I hold up a mirror so he could decipher
a seventeenth century manuscript on
naturally written backwards in Portuguese,
and thereby save his latest girlfriend
from being blown up by the Illuminati.
At this point, my legerdemain with words
and I decided that this poem
should be about a cat sunning himself in a window.
He’s content to leave well enough alone.
I mean, William Carlos Williams wrote
that so much depends upon a red wheelbarrow and chickens,
so why not a cat, sans pajamas, who believes
that so much depends upon a warm windowsill?
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