I just don't have the vim, the heart, the wit,

clearheadedness, the gumption, the desire

to write a sonnet this morning. I just can't.

But if I could manage, I'd tell my reader

that it is late winter and I'm quite eager

to say get lost to all the frost and ice

and welcome days of pollen, of glad young

humans with lively faces, of frisbees flung

by the Charles, of sandals and toe-rings.

Weary I am of lacksleep and the cold.

Swerveless, determined, a factory-belt

conveys me slowly, irreversibly,

through Decade Six. How did I get so old?

Rooftop snow that April cannot melt.