One Last Poem

Holiday festitivies ring strangely out of tune. Like a member of an orchestra, I sit ready for the Christmas concert, only to look around and realize with surprise that the conductor has gone missing ...

For those faithful blog readers of the past few months, I offer one last poem from the thirties, which I found among my mother's papers:

I love to show that I
am well-informed
I always feel so spry
when I've performed.
I chatter sotto voce
of Benedetto Croce
and mention with esprit
Paul Valery.
I talk with intuition
about the art of Titian,
and revel in the Beaux-Arts
and minuets of Mozart's.
I pounce like any vulture
on gents of lesser culture.
The sculptured gods of Myron,
the light-heart loves of Byron,
I speak about with ease and will
for all is grist unto my mill.