Shall I indulge in courtroom fantasy?
Shall I imagine Brutus at the bar,
compelled to learn from law’s authority
how petty-criminal his tantrums are?
Or shall I calm myself and settle back,
and add this to the worries I collect?
Ignore the bluster, weather the attack
that history has taught me to expect?

My children’s father called the other night,
inebriated (certainly) and vain,
expressed the bitterness of blinkered sight,
pontificated heartsore from old pain,
insulted me, and shamed himself of course.
He made me celebrate our old divorce.