Flow Apiece

 

were I an ailing spinster

downtrodden in whalebone stays

pale and pince-nezed nosy

would my verses flow

\snake oil slick\

along with river Thames?

I find I am much too hearty

to sit abed and scrawl

longhand iambic pentameter

with dainty perfect pen

so my words trudge

stagnant in the sludge.

were I an artiste avant-garde

flouting dilletante conventions

skirting societal hems

with off-color threads

\malcontent connection\

would my stanzas stitch

themselves permanent press?

I find I am much too staid

a slave to stoic strictures

to scribe poesy astride

a horse of different colors

so I scrawl off-kilter odes

to a life of stodgy standard

mayhaps the day will dawn

when my morphemes will march

with motoric locomotion

utterances in extremis

emotive brave locution