Circa 1987

The Sonnet You Wanted

She wanted me confined within bounds,

Apparently as she has always felt

That men like me should suddenly be found

Working with the hand that they have been dealt

From some stodgy old writer who one smelt

Like the inside of a public restroom

Whose skin I imagine was one, large welt

Forgiven as he entered the womb

Of some delicate young flower doomed

To be encased like the first butterfly

That Spring released a little too soon

In the showcase of a mere fourteen lines.

She has me where she wants me, I guess.

I leave it to her to proctor the test.