Wednesday Evening

Brought my new friend to the Poetry Group

To sit on a sofa, our fingers entwined,

While we help disentangle some alphabet soup

Served iambic, al dente, but as yet unsigned.

Will my new friend accept that I mix with you lot

Just as much for detection and wit as for wine?

Has she guessed that this doggerel, painfully wrought,

Pretentious and meaningless, is one of mine?

She scorns me and my writing, I’m sure it’s the end

Of a love that would flourish were it not for the curse

Of bringing her here.  But now someone’s penned

A delicate sonnet—to me—and it’s hers.