World history consists mostly
of inner despair   the would-be Napoleons
of North America   lying on cots at the end
nursing excruciating toothaches

Microwave nuggets in a tray on my lap
yellow packaging with rainbow lettering
Saturdays I was given to understand
I shared the room with lesser spirits   three or four          

at a time maybe and who mainly just
fixated on me   This at least
according to the family friend slash sitter
who liked to drape me in my father’s

coats and pose me hand in lapel
Sprinklers at twilight or neighborhood
lawnmowers   I don’t know which
unspools my progress most

Over there Luther broods on his campaigns
against indulgences   over here I decide
I truly desire this Sky Mall looking
piece-of-shit massage chair thing

Look at our latter day bootless routines
languid under the MacBook Air   The prophets
would allow us to adore them again
but they sense   given our day and age...

When I come to the end of my Internet search
I’m convinced those Napoleons still have hope
I dreamt of our defeat   the screen begins
and so arranged for our withdrawal  

__

Reading Diarmaid MacCulloch’s National Book Critics Circle Award–winning history The Reformation, I came to Martin Luther and naturally began to think of old babysitters.