Sonnets are the home for birth and death
For love and its fraught mysteries of heart
But washing clothes and hearing the dog’s breath
Is not as suitable or fitting as true art.
The raptures of the first night with our mate
The grief of being left alone and old
Such heartfelt topics suit the formal state
But not the fact the dog’s dinner’s gone cold
The first view of a baby wrung from womb
The first embrace with lovers we adored
These are pictured when big changes come
But not the horrid cat that scratched new floors.
But can our life be separated thus?
For sometimes on a bedpan men meet Death
How my heart sings 