It was not this, this leak that garnered such
a bleakstorm of uncompromising pressers.
Reporters rapt with duty thus: bring us
your best in blame, your scandals messier
than the ones before. We ask for the blood
of executives who, we're sure, laugh long
in their pinstripes, wingtips now oil-strewn, mud-
splat, soles mucked with fouled fishscale, choked birdsong.
Not this, lack of governmental foresight,
this splattering of lust for wealth, and less,
this tangle of administrative blight,
the slow looping stream of wide-eyed justice.
'Twas me, and you, our thirst, indelicate
gulping, our leak, our spill, our oil-stained foot.
This sonnet, written today with Mara in our Kitchen Table MFA class, is admittedly in need of a good edit, but it is at the same time a poetic version of this column on Daily Finance; its heart-cry is deep even though its form is lacking. Please write a sonnet of your own and, if you like, send me a link. Here are the general rules for a sonnet -- mine's Shakespearean -- if you decide to adopt another poetic form, I'll love it just the same. Use #bpoilsonnet if you post the link on Twitter. Image thanks to NWFblogs on flickr.