Thoughts on Windmills

It’s 11:11 and I wish I were an Oscar Winner weiner,
home on my hidden valley ranch.
There’s a wife in my future—
I can feel the tightening.
She would do anything for me,
except take care of herself, which is
the only thing I want from her.
Ezra Pound’s middle name is Loomis.
Hey hon, let’s go to the pound to get a cat
and name it Loomis so we’ll have something
more than the weather to talk about
when people come over. It very well may
facilitate discussion about Pound, fascism,
and Italy—Oh, how I’d love to go to Italy!—
the ladies will say, taking larger sips, gulps even,
putting the wine glass on the table
instead of holding it in their hands to help them
feel more comfortable, less awkward, and gesture gesture
their love for everything Italian and how much more authentic
it would be to have it all to try it all to snap photos of it all
in the home country itself. And the cat,
Loomis, will cough up a hairball; we will run out wine;
and I’ll be hoping it’s not too late to catch
at least one fight on ESPN2 to make this whole night
worth the whole day I gave it.
And before I fall asleep, I will think of ingrown hairs,
and turn to you and say,
Hey hon, we should live together—
I haven’t any tweezers.