I’m predisposed to Italian food,
even when it’s bad
I’d rather live in a period house,
old windows poorly clad
I tend to favor contact sports,
over all the other kind
My mind was trained to like these things,
though better I would find
It wasn’t out of malice,
or a sense that I was best
I drank the open chalice,
never beating on my chest
With time my views have broadened,
and my edges softened too
My life a jambalaya,
—and the truth a changing stew
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)