So Little To Be Said

From a banquet of words my daily bread

is spread with a thin layer of gratitude.

And so well fed, there’s little to be said

for a life of privilege. So construed:

I’m the un-urban dictionary of verse;

I’m the un-listed house that’s up for sale;

the under-valued penny in a purse

of golden coins. How easy they regale:

their newly minted trophies: their new wealth

of fresh anecdotes, decorated claims;

attesting to their contemporary stealth

and fitness in a world of modern games.

. All ready to abandon reason’s rhyme;

. already, I am stale before my prime.

© Tim Grace, 27 November 2024

To the Reader: Truth is, in a purse full of coins the shiny-coin will always attract attention. Freshly minted with a contemporary motif, the new coin is given preference over what’s become familiar and mundane. Buffing-up an old coin is one way of attracting attention to its continued worth; but alas, acceptance of receding notoriety is a hallmark of growing old with grace and dignity.

To the Poet: Working within the outer structures of a rhyming-poem adds an extra layer of internal puzzlement to what I see as a playful word game. This sonnet is bursting with internal connections designed to grip the reader to a sticky-relationship – “said the spider to the fly”.