Children, Cats, and Cancer

You can faintly imagine
How the details of your life
Might present themselves in poems

Of various well-known types.
What would be left of your days
In a Tang poem? Wine? Farewells?

A confessional poet
Might whittle you down to sex,
Grief, and suicide’s effects,

And coward you are, you’d hope
For a Romantic who liked
To sketch your long country walks,

But in a conversation
With an old, poetic friend,
You noticed cancer, children,

And cats got mentioned a lot.
No, what your life really wants
Isn’t il miglior fabbro.

You want to have your longings
Sung then run through a shredder.
You want Sappho’s editor.