pipistrellafelix

Because late-night poetry sessions rock. Like a rocking thing. I can write sonnets, but I think at the moment I like this one the best:
(Unedited, of course, a spur of the moment poem.)

I tried to write a sonnet
I thought it’d be romantic, old-fashioned,
bundles of poetry handwritten on thick paper,
bound with ribbons and
snuck, slyly,
into waiting hands.

I tried to make the syllables flow
-honestly, does a word like “syllable” ever flow?—
but they tripped
and fell
and stumbled over each other, awkwardly
and wouldn’t behave, or act just the way
I wanted them to.

you’ll have to make do with this.
I wrote it quickly, with ballpoint—
not a quill—
on scrap paper—
not parchment—
and since I will not see you for some time
I cannot slip this into your hand with a
sly wink and a
small smile.
your mailbox will have to do.

I hope when you find it
it reads like I meant it to,
and although the syllables skip and
trip
and are awkward and small
so were we, remember
we were not perfect like a polished sonnet

but maybe
just maybe
we were better.