This “love poem” is the result of countless hours sitting on a barstool at the Swinging Door Saloon. It is as sonnet as sonnet can be (ok, maybe not full on sonnet, but a sonnet at heart). And, if you’re wondering how dare I call this non-iambic, non-rhyming monstrosity a sonnet, you’ll just have to trust me. Or, if not me, how about the former Poet Laureate of the US?
If my Beer Could Talk
(A Sonnet of Sorts)
Would it be loud and opinionated
like every guy I know who hails from Boston?
Or would it speak quietly, a Korean
piano teacher with her eight year-old student?
Would it be funny, a real wise guy,
or simply profane like me?
Would it have the lovely lilt of an Irishman
or the chesty roar of an Uzbek soldier?
Would it be chanting prayers
like a monk in vespers?
Or would it be hoarse from having
to shout over the din of all the drunks?
Or, would it simply turn my head, look me
in the eyes and whisper, I love you too?