A SABBATICAL FROM THE RHYME 

We used to be friends that traveled,

Up the mountains and across the plains,

Flying with planes,

Sometimes we cried together,

Me sharing with him and

Him hearing from me,

Or we’d laugh together,

A joke in jest or quick quibble,

Harmless tonight, harmful tomorrow

I remember the coffee we drank,

The forts we built at night

When we stayed up far too late

While I would try my hand at cursive,

He would cross the t’s and

I would dot the i’s

My cursor would blink,

Vehemently holding a cup called “speech” 

While I was too tongue-tied to read between the lines,

Even the talks that we had,

When he’d sort and file my passion

Into what we thought were sound arguments

All became Webster’s words not mine,

And I can’t remember if I created him,

Or if he made me up

But I know we can’t make up

I need a break from his (kind) gestures

So that I won’t be forced under rhythmic pressures.