When I was just a kid I had a craft:
I wove potholders on a little loom,
So many that my friends and parents laughed
To see my hoard of colored squares mushroom.
I took them door-to-door around our block
But soon ran out of willing customers
Despite the varied patterns in my stock,
And now I see the same thing with my verse.
I see my bygone hobby did not die
But has transmogrified to a new form,
And now it’s sounds and syllables I ply,
So many that my sonnets are a swarm.
It seems again I’m in a patterned rut,
Unable to dispose of my fine glut.