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Miss Manners believes that an elegant
dinner party is not the venue to mention
your cancer, especially when Dr. Henry
Kissinger is the guest of honor.  Miss
Manners is positive the other guests
are more interested in Mr. Kissinger's
views on the Mideast  than your little
problem.  Miss Manners must also
point out we are  dealing with your
prostate, hardly a fit subject for
dinner conversation.  She also wonders
if an account of your regimen
of daily radiation might dissuade
the good doctor from expounding
on his world views.

Miss Manners is reminded of the motto,
For God, for Country and for
Yale and wonders if you want to
be lumped with such anticlimactic
pronouncements.  Miss Manners suggests
you beam quietly, listen avidly to our
esteemed guest, pass the rolls and,
in the spirit of the holidays, radiate joy.


Edmund Conti has had over 200 bios published but hasn't figured out he should make a boilerplate and use that rather 
than making up new stuff each time.  OK, he's not making it up.  He really does have a book out called Quiblets.  He
really did win the Willard R. Espy Foundation prize for light verse early in this millennium.  And he really (really!)
read before an audience of over 50 for poetrySpark in downtown Raleigh.
 
 




This was inspired by daily radiation treatments for prostate cancer.  (For those of you keeping score at home, it seems to have disappeared.)  I attended a lot of elegant dinners parties with the good doctor Henry Kissinger.  At least in my mind in a weekly column I wrote for the Summit (NJ) Herald. The imagined dinner parties were a good way to make points with the townspeople.  Or would have been if the townspeople had actually read my column.  So what is the point of this poem?  If it is that no one wants to hear about radiation or cancer, then why did I write it?
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