Sonnet, 9 months, family-friendly, fixed.
Had the thing a stint. Found on the street
behind alleyways where mother lived.
Nursed on diets of our pause and feet,
un-Donne Frost served on a thyme-less Plath
plucked from ’63. Half-versed in these:
stay, heel, speak. But for my life, won’t fetch
anything but stubborn memories
much unlovelier than Kilmer’s tree.
Prone to shed inside the hearers’ minds
(though it’s yet to even rhyme). Will greet
comings-home with howls of sound advice:
sonnets look like all the loves we left—
only problem is, they won’t play dead.