Excuses, Excuses
On day eight,
my poem was late.
Alas, there was no time
for any type of rhyme
let alone ottava
before my java.
Then, once my day had started,
I fussed and arted.
The time just wasn’t prime
to pen iambic rhyme––
no variety of verse
long or terse,
rhymed or blank
in my memory bank.
Later in the day, I had to rap
with friends newly arrived, and then a nap
consumed my time for two more hours,
then flowers
to water and a swim to take.
My day, in short, a piece of cake
but nonetheless, no time in it
for having writ.
A dinner invitation was what next
usurped my plans to ponder over text.
Chiles relleno made my life replete
as finally, I reached iambic beat.
A game of dominos was next to steal
my writing time—no time for me to deal
with beats and stanzas,let alone with rhyme.
Quite bluntly, then—there isn’t always time
to meet my obligations versical.
My day, in short, grew worsical
in terms of my poetic obligation,
as I let down the NaPoWriMo nation.
By now the clock had crept
to twelve and then it leapt
to two AM. That’s when I left
my friends bereft
as I deserted them to go and write.
I braved aloneness and the night,
approached my desk and plainly reckoned
to take pen in hand—but then my pool beckoned.
Through the window how the moon
caressed it’s surfaces, and all too soon,
it was more than just a whim.
I had to swim.
That is why
I am one shy
and do not have a
r i m a o t t a v a ! ! ! ! !
