Shakespearean Sonnet

Philosophers and princes have the time
to ponder on the vagaries of life.
The rest of us deal daily with the climb
or worse, avoiding pestilence and strife.

The privilege of it, you've but to ask
the famous question -- not an online poll.
Outrageous fortune relishes the task.
The rest of us sling arrows, rant and troll.

To be or not to be -- no shopping list.
No tradeoff between gasoline and milk,
nor a defense against a bloodied fist.
The rest of us must manage with their ilk.

And existential questions? Like I said,
they're best when served with fragrant wine, and bread.

Author notes: I'm still thinking through the ending. Of course possible to end it as a true Shakespearean sonnet: //And existential questions? Like I said, are best when served with fragrant wine and bread// and variations thereof for now, I'm leaving the end as is, but pondering it

oh, but to see your features once again
to gently brush my hand against your cheek
to have you look up suddenly and then
to kiss you on the mouth -- my knees grow weak
from just the thought of having you be near
imagining you'll walk right through that door
throw off your heels or slippers, I'll say "here"
and watch you as your dress falls to the floor
remembering your lips as I wake up
and kissing you so softly on the nose
our secret names, no, not my Buttercup
my Jezebel, still with me when I doze

the universe, indifferent, took you first
the house is full of echoes, and I thirst

Author notes: Shakespearean sonnet