I browsed in the bookstore the other day.
George Will’s latest book was on display.
My bowels formed into bigger and bigger knots.
I churned up my spite for Will once more.
I became bilious again over poor old George.
I looked more closely at his picture on the dust jacket –
my mind was rocked by a blinding thought
about why I’ve really despised him so, these many years:
It’s not for his ideas so-called, his pandering to power,
but because he looks so much like a fellow I once saw
long ago with a woman whom I fancied I loved.
Are our vaunted intellectual stances,
our imperious moral attitudes
no more than limbic emotions, drives
dressed up in elegant trappings?
I’m still perplexed by this, so I write.
* * *
(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2012