Millenial Gmail Sonnet
Hai. You’re visible, away. I’m invisible
Because I’m writing this sonnet, see:
The chain-mailed gauntlet of verse, quibbling
With a word here, colon: there. Be
Yourself, they say, you can’t write looking
Over your shoulder. You hate Form
Letters. I hate chain mails after booking
A flight to see you. Imagine a worm
Burrowing through the Apple of time.
Now imagine eating that apple, meal
And all, the worm’s meta-morphic slime
Dripping down your chin. Let’s make a deal:
We’ll fall in love and we’ll maybe marry
If we’re still single and not dead by forty?