A dream showed no more courses to be planned, No tests to grade, no meetings to be at— Except for workshops in some far-off land, Morocco maybe, Spain, or Montserrat … Each time this dream recurred it would require Researching in exotic meeting sites In which I’d give a talk and then retire To think professor’s thoughts through foreign nights, Upholding highest standards, even though Sequestering with scholars on a beach, Pontificating on the things I know, Relieved of grading since I couldn’t teach … One day I did retire. Then Covid came. Far-off is still far-off. The dream’s the same!
“For now, and for my beloved children, it will be less drama, more mama.” —Kellyanne Conway, resigning from her White House role as Counselor to the President
We’ll miss you, Kellyanne; farewell!
Your parting rhyme detracts
Not one scintilla from the spell
You wove from roving facts.
Has she misplaced her cub, so full of squee?
Whew—no: she hears its outsize melody
and takes it to her breast, as well she might—
the finest viewing option for tonight.
To this brave youth who sat in Nashville;
To this brave man who stood with King;
Who walked across a bridge in Selma,
And earned a law-backed battering;
To this brave statesman, daily proving
The spirit of the Freedom Ride;
To this brave spokesman, earth’s defender,
Forever on the future’s side;
To this brave sage, unstopped by sickness,
To this brave star, now laid in state:
Let us be thankful for his service,
Who dreamed and fought and would not wait.
“I would urge the leaders, local, political, and other leaders … to be as forceful as possible in getting your citizenry to wear masks.” —Dr. Anthony Fauci on C-Span
“Australian Medical Association president Tony Bartone said every person in areas of community transmission should use masks.” —Australia’s SBS News
Doctor Tony Fauci’s facial
mask advice is simply spatial.
Covid covets oral spaces
gaping from uncovered faces;
aerosols covertly hover
over throats devoid of cover,
lured by glistening pharynges
into cavernous larynges.
But for masks, at any second
droplets may spelunk as beckoned
downward into vital hollows,
aided by the host who swallows.
Knowing this, you won’t be grouchy
following advice from Fauci.
Keep in mind that even Aussies
cheerfully protect their fauces.
“Kit de Waal: ‘As soon as you introduce a talking horse, I’m just not interested’” —The Guardian
Me too. I always have a groaning fit
When horses talk—I hate the stuff they say;
They’ll trot out some rebarbative cliché
However much their mouths are full of bit.
A yakking horse is always in a snit:
“So you forgot my apple? Call this hay?”
Faster? I’m sorry, am I Whirlaway?”
You know what would be helpful? Learn to sit.”
Yes, nags who nag just gallop on my nerves.
There’s nothing worse than equine têtes-à-têtes;
Horse whispering—God knows what that deserves:
No wonder we get charged so much by vets.
Don’t get me wrong, my horse-love’s tried and tested!
But please, don’t talk. I’m just not interested.
“Until the final typescript of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which is set to be auctioned, the author had planned to call [the heroine] Connie Gustafson.” —The Guardian
The heavy dark frames on the little chic face;
The gestures so saucy and sprightly;
The happy confusion of grace and disgrace:
I’m calling her Connie Gustafson.
The little black dresses; the innocent greed;
The gold for the powder room (nightly);
The cigarette-holder as long as a reed:
I’m calling her Connie Gustafson.
The crocodile heels as they twirl on the brink;
The pearls that are beaming so brightly;
The vision of youth that is lost in a blink:
I’m calling her Connie Gustafson.
