Day one was an honest mistake. Eight hours
selling junk unearthed from the basement,
and I never thought to market my verse—
my hard-won collections surely of a different
sort than ugly sweaters and old records.
And people were buying—neighbors and strangers went
home satisfied. Day two, I made sign boards:
Got poetry? Support a local artist.
I prettified a basket and set it out towards
the street. The covers were nice, the titles suggestive.
You can guess how the story ends. Two sales.
True, it was Sunday. Fewer people passed.
In my hope, I had forgotten what’s proven the rule:
poetry is mostly for the poet—that lonely fool.
by Devon Balwit
Editor’s Note: This poem’s slant rhyme lulls the reader into thinking that the perhaps the speaker isn’t sonnetizing at all, but then the last two lines fool everyone back into reality.
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