Sonnets and sestinas and stanzaic choice
sent me out with my head hung low.
All the grace of every poem had what
I had opted not to own–
Rhyme and meter, influence, too
Had Billy pressed that more than once?
The form is almost everything
Or so I thought, yeah, me the dunce.
I marveled at the dog and chair
that sit so quietly by the stairs
and then I thought about the form,
loving masters, hearts forlorn.
And it all fell apart one line at time.
It simplified and lost it’s rhyme.
and soon enough I had a poem
that meant nothing, so I went home.