boxing

Miss pink gloves looks like a contender,
a speed date you would like to know,
her wispy bangs and moon-deep eyes,
the way she clasps her bag against her thigh.

As you sit down, “Oh what is it you do?”
You come out fighting, “I’m a published poet.”
She counters with a raised eyebrow, and sighs,
“Dear God, you mean another one of those.”

“The terse haiku dude labored odd relations,
the sonneteer was full of high conceit,
You  really can’t be worse than all those others.”
“I am a Tanka master.” She says, “Shit!”

So you dive straight in,
Manyoshu to Kokinshu,
modern revival,
the chosen form for lovers,
friends, between tea, end of day

She takes your points, left, right, left, right, left, right,
the best research that Wikipedia has,
She hits below the belt, “Well, I do free verse.
Your prissy counting I’ll leave to my gran.”

You stagger back, while looking for a comeback,
but she is getting up, and moves to leave.
You offer to perform a quick recital,
The timer sounds for technical defeat.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s