Sonnet Station

Announcer says: approaching Sonnet Station.
My ears perk up. I'm going to Nantucket.
The book is stillborn, midway through gestation.
Nantucket being where one goes when fuck it.

I chuckle at the thought of all the has-beens'
debating whether dots must have two spaces.
The dusty bookstores and their empty dust bins;
the never-will-bes' in their coffee places.

What kind of town would call itself a "sonnet"?
A poet colony? Is it contagious?
Romantics seize your soul and feast upon it,
and rhyme-a-dozens masquerade as sages?

Full stop. Doors open. Sky is grey with rain.
I hesitate... then leave doubt on the train.