Trump Confers With The Poet Laureate.

"My pasta: al dente," continues President Trump, looming over the poet laureate. He waits for it to sink in. "Can you make a rap out of that?"

"A rap?" queries the poet laureate, clandestinely fingering his stitches.

"Poetry is rap," explains the president, "I'd like a rap with the phrase 'my pasta: al dente'. I think it would make a good rap."

"Oh, okay," says the poet laureate, over the sound of the rattling air conditioner, slowly dripping condensation onto the hard tile.