I have seen so many
Doges tiptoeing
in this life. They hold
pussy willows,
yes, they smile
and dream like Vlad Tepes
amidst so many
pillows. Cursing
them is trite.
I prefer their xeonophobic lakes,
their young-smelling museums.
I meet them on the highway years later,
and I am invariably younger, again.
We discuss matters of punctuation.
History is courtesy, after all.
And then I skip behind their backs.
It's not as gay as it sounds.
Really, it isn't.
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