Lesson Learned

Well, shit. I wrote a sestina for

school, but didn’t do it well.

The song in my mind

struck the wrong chord

until a told f to eff off,

and f told a, no way.

I’d toasted myself: way

to go, Ms. Middle Age, for

this old dog tricked new. Off-

the-cuff frustration was a well

of inspiration, fuel like a cord

of wood to light in my mind.

A classmate didn’t mind

my lines that wonky way.

Still, they struck that jarring chord,

rehearsing hymns for

a choir of nobles who well

know when a line is off.

The tune trailed off–

too far astray to mind

the trap. I don’t brain well,

and the cadence lost its way.

Sunday hours flew, but what for?

Strumming a wrongful chord.

It’s a lovely chord

if your pitch is off

and your ear for

a fractured chant pays no mind.

We all find a way

to pay the wishing well.

I suppose it’s just as well

to find that rusty chord

and unpick the way

its timbre flew off

the poet’s staff. Mind

you, that’s what practise is for.

For my part, I meant well.

The chord in my mind

was off, but sweet in its way.