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Woodsmeister
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A Petrarchan Sonnet for the Times
by Greg Grant
Alas, my mistress looketh not at me-
Instead, she harkens to my IBM.
The apple of my eye, with luscious stem,
Makes all attempts to woo and flatter me
To get to my machine. I now can see
My floppy disks mean more to her than all
My loving glances could. O wretched fall
When we romanced beneath the chestnut tree.
If we could just return to what we had
Before my software came between desire
And her soft wear. Alas, I fear her heart
Is terminally lost and we must part
Unless she can put out her output fire
And forswear access to this crazy fad.
Back to Poetry page
Author's note: I wrote this in 1986
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