A Case.

I set the lines in order, one by one,

And let the metre march its steady beat.

The rhymes fall in, a drill that must be done,

Like schoolboys shuffling in with dusty feet.

I gave your rhymes their fifteen lines of fame.

They marched in boots, they saluted the clock.

Fine.

The quatrains flex, but never past the rules;

The couplet waits, already half-asleep.

This is the sport of pedants, scribes, and schools,

A box to tick, a promise made to keep.

But language isn’t a regiment.

It stumbles, laughs, swears,

takes a shortcut through the mud.

Yet language stirs and kicks against the pen,

It coughs, it laughs, it wants a looser dress.

The form is proud, but pride grows dull when

The point of speech is shock, or awkwardness.

Meaning likes surprise,

not uniforms.

So take this frame: a cage, but neatly made.

I’d rather walk the field without its shade.

Call this careless if you like.

I call it breathing.