The muse of poetry
tumbles around the floor
of the world
until she lands at a spot on my pen,
attempts a difficult double-flip,
and falls flat on her back.
Rising early, inspired, one morning
I sang a sonnet song
and the cats, in circles, ran around
while dogs in the neighborhood, they did howl.
I labored to build a pantoum bridge
got halfway across the river,
but at the wrong time,
and down it went
into the water
sinking like a ton of rhymes.
So I wish you the best,
swimming in your sestina soup
cooing haikus in seventeen syllables
developing that village of villanelles
or fighting fires in villanelle hell
but the only device I’ll come up with
is, once in a while, to rhyme a couplet.