Michael Coy Poet Sonnet

Sonnet 116

I’ll always feel this way. Love can’t be love
which alters where it alteration finds:
my driver, she – no matter how she grinds
my gears. I’d hardly term it, hand-and-glove:
it’s much more like a scrimmage, push-and-shove.
Relationships there are, of many kinds:
but whether pigs-with-lipstick, Golden Hinds,
one party is below, and one above:
one partner is the hawk, and one the dove.
If she’s the cheese, I am the humble rinds.
No matter where this crazy freeway winds,
there’s one thing that I’m always certain of:
a meeting (or collision?) of the minds:
a bedroom where we never draw the blinds.

♡Like0

Share Poem

---

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment