Forensic Prose Poem in the Form of a Sonnet
The autopsy and I know why so bundle up the pieces,
shove ‘em in the chest cavity and sew the corpse up.
Your boat’s in the bird bath. Your little dog’s on a large beach.
Rent tears for the vale of sorrow.
The sand clock’s tired of sequence. What for?
Doing its tasks, night/day, following the stupid rules of sonnets
with moods various but always full of mica.
At dawn the frog croaks. Steals the show.
So once something is broken it can never be fixed.
There are people who claim otherwise like superglue
but the heart always has the stress line
and when it rains you feel the chill in your teeth.
How can you explain? Love won’t make it go away.
I’d ask Keats if he were still around.