Gone with the Tide

A Sonnet in the Italian Form

The pasta's gone, I've eaten all the bread. The waitress comes to take the plates away, And bring espresso to me so I'll stay. Tonight I need to write, not go to bed. The bitter brew will work up to my head, And help me when I set my words to play, In scribbles on the napkins. Like a jay I stuff them in my pockets to be read.

But when I find my shirt upon a hanger, The pockets full of paper, pulped and massed, The inked words gone, diluted and dispersed, Upon whom can I vent my anger, The laundress who upon the ocean cast, My poems? I cannot, yet still she's cursed.