Style No. 49: Sonnet


Two orange boys stand in the street with a whistle

One deep in thought, the other gazing at the crowd.

A friendly arm hangs across his shoulders, allowed

Because they are well acquainted and dismissal

Or rebuttal is hardly probable. Just then

An old woman, flustered by some unknown trouble

Passes by, something odd concealed like a bubble

Under her headshawl, like some tragic comedienne

In a strange costume. Meanwhile, behind the two boys

Appears a dour and conspicuous gentleman

Who, with funereal and mysterious poise

Deigns to cast his gaze knowingly the other way.

Whether he hatches some kind of devious plan,

Or if it’s just his face’s shape, is hard to say.




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