He’s reading Fifty Shades of Grey
while central air keeps out the heat.
“God, protect our loyal donors,” he prays,
safe from the city’s infected streets.
His wife is shopping at Whole Foods;
they’re having kimchi with Manischewitz tonight.
“Will she have me call her Christian again?
Oh, I hope the new dildo won’t feel too tight!”
Now pings his vital iPhone
with email from team member Matthew Schmitz:
Corona merits guidance from their journal,
but that young assistant—such a lazy bitch!
Comes a call from crying A.M. Juster;
the poetic left has brought him to the brink:
They’ve called him a hateful racist,
but there’s just no funding for a shrink.
Yet here’s relief from a helpful neighbor
concerning undocumented salt of the earth:
Yes, Pablo is as handy as he’s hungry,
so the broken hot tub shall soon work.
Providential days as ever!
And now the heart beats faster and faster;
might diverse neighbors be included tonight?
He resolves to ask the Master.