Wednesday’s Poem: It’s the birthday of the novelist Mario Puzo, born in New York City in 1920. He was the son of Italian immigrants. He wrote two novels that sold almost no copies, and he was in serious debt. Then one Christmas Eve, he had a severe gall bladder attack, and he was in so much pain that he fell into the gutter. As he was lying there, he said to himself, “Here I am, a published writer, and I am dying like a dog.” He vowed that if he got better he would devote the rest of his life…