Like Mozart’s Cherubino, I know nothing of love
but I am waiting on the runway, idling like a jet
I am burning my composure
I am inviting trouble
I have hidden gifts
and a steely will

Operas
mount racehorses.
Idiom rubs elbows
with Billboard charts.
World capitols bow
to puns
and seabirds,
and long-dead winners
waltz,
cheek to cheek,
with subject-verb
agreement.

The things we love most
are the least important,
but how nice to find
them meeting
each other.