I’m having a really hard time with the idea that the 8th of April might be the first day on which I don’t complete the composition of two poems, one of which must be a sonnet. I could let myself off the hook, I suppose, because yesterday I posted a 28 line sonnet, or, rather, a poem in two 14 line stanzas in a rough iambic pentameter, which should count, really, as two sonnets, OR, at 10:13 in the p.m. on the 8th day of April, I could attempt to write a sonnet after a couple of brewskies. How hard could that be?
Let’s find out:
My son at eighteen years becomes a fan
once again of the toy they call Legos.
At one point years ago he sold his cache
of sets he had since he was eight or nine.
Of course, those sets he once had have doubled
in market value; that infuriates him
now that he’s back into collecting bricks
and building vast worlds and elaborate kits.
At a recent convention, it was clear
that Legos have expanded market share
to include adults, big kids, intent on
recapturing something of their lost youth.
Even I could not help being sucked in
when Lego building feels almost like zen.
michael jarmer 