You know all those sonnets the ones where I said, “I love you,” well
This time, I mean it, this time I’m talking about
Your curly hair soaked black from October’s frozen rain.
You reading Milton and eating a BLT.
Our up-front lies about being vegetarians,
(Milton’s, “I can not praise a cloistered virtue”).
More really, all those times we never kept meeting,
Till we finally never met—giving up,
Till bacon, Milton and the rain were all we had.
Admit now I never wrote you sonnets,
And that this probably isn’t a sonnet either,
Tho’ I’ll call it one, and loud skies pour down
To live on, back-of-the-brain with you,
Milton, bacon, your face in a year of rain.