A villanelle.
A Shakespearean sonnet?
I’ll get right on it!
Love or death,
A pretty flower.
I rent my quatrains
By the hour.
Couplets, limericks,
Iambic rhymes.
I sing for my supper
And dance for dimes.
Every troubadour
Who penned a verse
Had a rich, old patron
With a golden purse.
Such, alas, is
The poet’s lot.
Now throw some
Money in the pot.
Rosalind Resnick
Dec. 29, 2015