Lumpy- Headed Sonnet

lumpy

Image source: google

Lumpy- Headed Sonnet

Greetings! And what has brought you to see me, Mr. Dawson?

You see, I’ve found a small lump that has amassed mass distress

And would you say from day to day that you feel mad depressed?

A curveball, but yes, I confess feeling less than awesome.

 

Do you drink too much? Feel out-of-touch? And if so, how often?

Maybe… Yes… I guess the process has me viewing my own coffin.

Do you feel like a let-down to all who love you in life?

Is your med-degree in poetry? Why yeah, I bear that strife.

 

And how often would you say that you indulge in marijuana?

What? I’m here for my lump. Kindly address that instead.

Evading the question? But why on earth would you wanna?

 

No answer? Let’s refocus. My prognosis is something you’ll dread.

How much time do I have left? I know that I am a goner.

There is no lump, Mr. Dawson. It is all inside your head.

** *

Inspired by dVerse MTB – Neruda and the free verse sonnet, hosted by Bjorn, but not shared there, as this is not quite what he was looking for in a Petrarchan sonnet. The subject matter is inspired by actual events. When I saw Bjorn’s post, it gave me the idea to create a conversation in sonnet form. [EDITED: Bjorn suggested that I share it on his prompt anyway, so I did! I also tightened a few lines in my poem. The flow was bugging me.]

Did I just invent a new form? Surely someone has already done this. Meh. It was a good de-stressing exercise anyways.

If you’re curious about Petrarchan sonnets, head over to dVerse. Also check out some examples here.

 

Company Time

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Image source: Google

Company Time

Morning alarm pierced my skull.

 

As I groaned to silence it,

I locked eyes with Wifey.

 

Words needn’t pass between us,

but they did, as microbursts

of shorthand dialog tends to form

invisible webs between vessels.

 

“I think I’m staying home,”

my mouth and eyes said.

My head pounding,

the weight of my own body

collapsing my bones

into the lush comfort of our bed,

the covers embracing me,

bracing me for non-stop cartoons

and marathon Texas hold ‘em drawls.

 

Wifey peered through my marrow,

doing the math in her head.

“You had too much Irish Death last night,”

she deduced,

“and now you’re waiting to die.”

 

I am wounded,

but I never shy away

from a game of cat

and also-cat.

 

I pivot and counter, declaring,

“Theoretically speaking,

we’re all waiting to die.

It’s all a matter of degrees.”

 

Score one point for the good guys.

 

I elucidate some concessions,

hoping to persuade her to my side.

“But my head is pounding,

possibly from too much Irish Death

I suppose,

but mainly from spring allergies,”

 

I sniffle unnecessarily,

 

“and I didn’t drink enough water last night,”

because I’m no lush with self-control issues;

this is biology’s fault, dammit!

 

“And my body aches from

too much young man work,”

c’mon and pity my

alcohol-soaked marrow;

I know you’ve seen it!

 

“And I’m depressed,”

-heart-string-pluck!

“and so yes, I am lying here, waiting to die,”

which was the truth; I mean I was lying there,

right?

 

Wifey’s eyes smiled

the way they did

when we use to play Texas hold ‘em together

before I gave up on playing with her

because it was no fun

playing against someone

who didn’t have a poker-face.

 

Then she began;

“Well while you’re lying there waiting to die,

take a look at our bank statement

and weigh it against our mortgage,

our utility bills, and our

ballooning credit card statement, including,

yes darling,

the very comfortable bed

you hide from the world in

as you lie there waiting for death;

 

“Yes, please lie in your holy sanctuary

that we have yet to pay for.”

 

Our bed

wasn’t quite as comfy as it was earlier,

but I still had the river card to turn.

 

“One day of my waiting to die won’t kill us!”

I counter, in vain.

 

Suddenly, my day of rehydrating while

binge-watching cartoons

feels further from my grasp.

 

Her smile widens. I can hear

the poker analyst in my head yelling,

“No help on the river for this groggy

hungover desperado!”

 

She gloats,

her pair of aces

staring daggers through

my sob-story.

 

“True, I cannot refute that,” she begins,

“but while you lie there waiting to die,

consider my role in management.”

 

Uh-oh.

 

“I would love to curl up next to you

and wait for you to… well, not die…

I kinda like having you around…”

 

She’s setting me up…

 

“…but I cannot indulge my wants…”

 I don’t like where this is going…  

 

“…because I need to go to the place

that pays me to make decisions…”

IT’S A GODDAMNED GUILT-TRIP!

GROAN! PLAY DEAD! DO ANYTHING!

 

“…like the ones I have to make today

to set the apparatus in motion to sanction

a few troublemakers

for not being team-players

and setting all I built aflame

just so they can rule over the ashes.

I guess in their own way,

they’re waiting for death too.

Sadly, I don’t have that luxury.”

 

The poker analyst in my head bellows,

“He’ll be spending the next few hours

on the bus

wondering where it all went wrong…”

 

With the microburst of

unspoken conversation ended,

where seconds felt like minutes,

I drag my undead carcass

from the world’s most comfortable

unpaid mattress

and shuffle to the bathroom

to brush my teeth.

 

That foolish woman!

 

She actually thought she’d bested me,

but unknown to her,

I can still lie and wait to die,

even on company time.

** *

Written for dVerse’ Meeting the Bar: Irony hosted by Frank Hubeny. I’m a sarcastic a-hole by nature, but irony is a wee bit subtler than that. Still, get me started on irony and suddenly I need an editor. I know it’s a long one, and I’m sorry. Hopefully, you were entertained by it a bit.

And since you’ve made it this far, why not head over and read other poets’ contributions to this prompt.