Clik here to view.
Happy poets praise time—
and even use it in their rhyme.
Punctuation is a race car!
Measurement pants after a sinking star.
Time, it’s true, makes life unreal—
“Was it that long ago? It seems like yesterday!”
“Where did that minute go?
“Why can’t the hyacinth stay?”
But happy poets persist
In kissing simple lips already kissed.
Anything can happen
in dead quiet. Or in Manhattan.
But the bitter poets are indifferent to time.
They rattle on—forgetting to rhyme.
