I UNDERSTAND IT’S OVERTURE
Having from scratch to cultivate a mild
and sentimental heart, a mind not made
from crystal, sleet, and ice, I am afraid
I cannot give you drama, cherub child.
I know you long for fanfare and the drum;
I understand it’s overture you crave
and accent, know the “where” from which you come:
Sentiment keeps its right foot in the grave
where I’m concerned, who do not care for rings,
nor perfumes, nor bouquets, nor dress and drape;
who give rare thought to women, song, and wine.
My thought is on lackluster other things,
entrusting you with ferment of the grape,
theatrics, magic, and Saint …