It’s clearly out of my control,
that mixing bowl,
the one I use
for breads, for mousse,
’cause now it’s full, no, not with fudge—
with mud and sludge
out in the yard.
My girl’s been hard
at work: “Look Mom,” she says, “It’s jam!”
Control be damned.
No need to curse.
My bowl is hers.
*This is a special form called a Minute … a slice of life with 60 syllables with an couplet rhyme scheme and stanzas of 4/2/2/2 iambs
Right after, “Control be damned,” comes, “No need to curse.” Planned, or it did it happen? Either way, nice.
I like this form. It rolls playfully, the reading. It softens the ache of the narrator in this particular piece.
Very clever. The rhymes are so fluent, not lined up like a picket fence. I’ll have to try one. Thanks.