On the Origin of Our Exoticity
(1960s)

My mother had vanilla tastes
And when the cookie box
Was passed around among the
Extravagant chocolate, maplenut,
And lemon-creme lovers, she always
Chose the prose of butter cookies.

My father sawed and
Planed and rabbeted our
Lives by hand, carefully
Tolerating inadvertencies
Such as would undermine
Third-generation sophistication.

Yet here we are,
The splendid children
Of an age of eccentricities,
Asking who we are,
Where we are from
And whoever could have created us
With such exotic tastes.