Well three.
I mean four, but they're quite short.
The first three are from--
no wait a minute, I think I'm going to do this differently.
Are we-- OK.
Never mind, they are new poems.
"Qualm".
"Warren G Harding invented the word 'normalcy',
[LAUGHTER]
And which is true, I believe.
And the lesser-known 'bloviate'--
seems to be a very apt occasion to read this poem--
meaning, one imagines, to spout, to spew aimless verbiage.
He never wanted to be president.
The 'Ohio Gang' made him.
He died in the Palace Hotel in San Francisco,
coming back from Alaska.
As his wife was reading to him, about him,
from The Saturday Evening Post.
Poor Warren.
He wasn't a bad egg, just weak.
He loved women and Ohio.
This imagined summer of fatal grace,
a new golf star flashes like confetti,
across the intoxicating early part of summer.
Almost to the end of August.
The crowd is hysterical.
Fickle as always, they follow him
almost to the edge of the inferno
but the fall is deliciously, only his.
They shall communicate this and that,
and compute fixed names like doorstep in the wind.
The agony is permanent rather than eternal.
He'd have noticed it.
Poor Warren.""