Torrid

There is this torrid, This unconscionable rhyming of words, Because of syllable count Or ending letters. Expedient poetry Is like passionless Clockwork sex, sans foreplay With any stranger Who comes into view The happening hour of any day; It's too convenient- Who could say no? But you know, you'd better not. Scrabble word poetry Is not as enjoyable As the random scatter of life Inviting us to solve an inscrutable puzzle. (I’m trying to go through the twelve step program for not writing pre-digested poetry. It’s going to take some doing..lol)