(the day Wallace Stevens wrote a sonnet at his day job)
Today is Surreptitious Sonnet Day,
feast of St. Wallace in the poets’ church.
Writing on paper, I will not betray
my brief defection to the sharp-eyed search
of bosses and their minions. (I do NOT
trust the blonde secretary on my right).
To tell the truth, a drink would hit the spot
and set a rather dampened Muse alight
with ardor. I’m supposed to do a graph
with curves of loss and profit, but inclined
to draw a smiley face and raise a laugh.
What if the bosses think I’ve lost my mind?
My life is dreary, and a small voice sings,
St. Wallace, raise me up on eagles’ wings.