Thanks to modern series-streaming
Schadenfreunds enjoy the screaming
Of their late-arriving friends
Just learning how Sopranos ends.
February’s in the wings
And doubtless stressing over things
She can’t control, like who’s the slime
Absconded with her rightful time,
And whether Saturday will ever
End (’cause groundhogs aren’t that clever).
January, take a bow!
You’re awesome, but you’re over now.
It’s February’s time to shine.
No, don’t be nervous, you’ll be fine.
Go show that three-day-clipping creep
That you could give a flying leap
About his thievery. You’re on!
(Psst! Jan! Get off! You should be gone!)
What’s that? Okay, fine, one more day,
But Friday Eve, you’re making way
For February. Promise me!
(Oh, also strike the Christmas tree.)
Mano a mano
Is Spanish for “hand-to-hand.”
You’re using it wrong.
I don’t like to brag
Which is fortunate because
It’s not credible
Life is live
And you’re the star
The stage is anywhere you are
Your thoughts comprise the script
The score’s your voice
And that applause
Alarm goes off
Just do your business
Near the sink
Turn on the light
To stem the flow
Don’t answer when
Your brain objects
And ignore those texts
From your subconscious
Just leave the nest
When it’s too late
Think all you want
Just do the thing
You planned last night
Without a thought
Just close your mind
And when you wake
Be proud of you
I have a tub.
It isn’t hot,
And that’s the least
Of what it’s not:
It isn’t big
Or filled with friends
Or bubble jets
(Well, that depends
On if you count
The ones your bottom
If so, it’s got ’em).
It’s a mid-sized,
Of listless water.
Come on in!
Look, I know this isn’t very good.
I wish I had the energy to care
Enough to craft this verse the way I should,
But that tank’s drier than my underwear,
Of which I’m prouder than I should admit
Since I’ve been years inside these big boy pants
And only rarely soil where I sit
Or smell like peers in Louis XIV’s France,
But childhood victories are extra sweet
And leave an aftertaste that’s hard to shake
And draws you in, in hopes you might repeat
That glorious feat, a thirst you’ll only slake
When aging’s unavoidable decay
Puts underpants at risk on Sonnet Day.
Mass shootings happen all the time
Without a reason, but with rhyme:
For thoughts and prayers and guns, demand
Will spike, but changes won’t be planned.
Still, best be safe: Shore up your stock
Of weaponry in case the shock
Of this one causes such regret
That we’ll do what we haven’t yet,
By which I mean, a single thing…
I kid! We won’t. Let freedom ring.
Nero scored the fall
For a solo violin
Don’s not musical