When I play upon the fields of the vast
whatever, no one knows my name. No one
cares that I am learning secret rules
to a game with victories sweet and fast
where everyone reclaims their sense of fun.
It’s not the kind of game they teach in schools.
Here, no rhyme’s a crime. Sonnets happen all
the time; lame words like bonnet find their place
internally, the pulses I was born
with have the times of their life. Thinking small
is where my field shrinks. I lose my pace—
originality gives way to scorn.
If you’ll excuse me now, I have a date
with the captain—he’s a hottie!—of my fate.
© Elaine Stirling, 2016