I make my own salt beef but I buy in
the bagels—nothing better with pickles
and coleslaw     Some say that the sonnet is
dead and that too many winters of dis-
content have passed
                   that the form has become
an unshapely ragbag full of the dross
of modern life     In the house that Jack built
we take a different view     Patsy tells me
she has no time for Shakespeare’s courtly love
“That talk of the loveliness of roses
leaves me cold,” she says, “and he’s forever
counting the hours for this and that—it drives
me mad. . . talking of which the chicken will
be ready in half an hour.
                               You hungry?”

John Lyons