the beauty and brains of the
German Olympic skier turned professor
has the pale skinned academics
at the sports conference entertaining
the possibility of a master race.

Not me.
during WW 11 my uncle and his partisans
killed two German's anytime an
Italian villager or Jew was killed in Cagli
but even if I held a grudge
more than a half century later
one look at her and I would embrace détente.

German is a harsh-guttural language
not soothing to the ear like my Uncle Sam’s Italian
but there’s a beautiful- almost- divine sound
when the German Olympic skier and I make love in
my hotel shower and she reverts to her native language
“Ya. Ya. Ya. Oh, ya Ross, ooh baby doll.”

I’m man enough to admit I usually hear
screaming from women I am
arguing with -- not making love to
and those times I hear it during lovemaking
I assumed the woman stubbed her toe on the
bedboard or is faking it so I leave her the hell alone.

our romantic time together at the conference lasts about as long
as it took Germany to crush Poland during WW 11
like Hitler
I never know when to declare victory.
I kiss the German Olympic skier
goodbye at the Chicago airport
as I walk away she spots
the insurance policy I purchased on her life
in the faint chance her plane goes down.
the German Olympic skier is angry
but I can use the hundred grand a hell of a lot more
than long distance phone calls to her in Dusseldorf.