My favorite recipes have an element of danger.
Then, I observe how not to follow them
until I can make maximum example of my shortcomings
and the performative chagrin I convey just short
of a bow.

Only my select audiences know how I juggle
an armistice in one hand
and a cleaver in the other.

Tell me how you’d like my job.
Don’t I know it.
Haven’t I gone through the machinations
for you to take my mantel?
Or at least keep it clear of the riff raff
who think democracy means
they have a place here.

Call me a turtle.
Call me a hare.
Call me a fascist.
I’ve got a place in a bunker.
It’s just the right temperature.