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)