Chris’s Little Shop of Sonnets

O sing of gasoline, **** oil, and grease,
And chemicals too, incorrectly stored,
And may these toxic wonders ever increase
In service to Harley, Chevy, and Ford

O sing of tools, milled from wood, steel, and brass,
Aluminum, copper, even bits of string,
For forming function, volume, shape, and mass
In cylinder, piston, rocker, and ring.

O sing, old radio, those Beale Street Blues
In tune with that engine, and make it smoke,
Shake that rusty icebox all full of brews,
In Chris’s cave of motorized Baroque.

Sonnets and workshops are messy (it seems)
because
Iambs and wrenches build truth out of dreams