I found the snippet a co-worker had shown me* and pondered the phrase and finally wrote a haiku. Then I remembered the NaPoWriMo prompt for today:

An un-love poem isn’t a poem of hate, exactly — that might be a bit too shrill or boring. It’s more like a poem of sarcastic dislike. This is a good time to get in a good dig at people who chew with their mouth open, or always take the last oreo. If there’s no person you feel comfortable un-loving, maybe there’s a phenomenon? Like squirrels that eat your tomatoes. (I have many, many bitter feelings about tomato-eating squirrels). There’s lots of ways to go with this one, and lots of room for humor and surprise as well. Happy writing!

So, I endeavored on and made a mashup of haiku meets sonnet. Please forgive me, LOL.

One Too Many Thorns

Your dysfunctionality
yields amusing anecdotes
You’re wrapped up in it
wearing it always
like an old worn out sweater
you’ve kept since grade school
there’s not much substance
but every pricker and burr
attaches to it.
You’ve become prickly
drawing thorniness nearer
making it easy…
can’t love a porcupine much
I turn and walk on.

* “what about all the amusing anecdotes that result from my dysfunctionality?”

from napowrimo.net: Day 9 —

Today I challenge you write a poem inspired by noir — it could be in the voice of a detective, or unravel a mystery, or just describe the long shadows of the skyscrapers in the ever-swirling smog. After all, “you know how to write a poem, don’t you, Steve? You just pick up a pen and you write.”

I had thought about going to Manchester to hear the Poet Laureate of Vermont but no road seemed to want to get me there in time. I came home instead and thought about this prompt some more. Here goes the first draft – it was a line and half or so past a sonnet so I did mush it around enough to make it stick as one and fixed a couple things.

In the corner of the bar, in the shadows,
sitting alone, waiting for someone
the long cool drink of water
but for now there’s just a glass
half full and some ice.
Just showing up, dressed nothing special
the night’s rain tracked across the floor
shining on the linoleum.
Each door opening brings a gush of hope
but no one shows a twitch of it.
Two dark eyes not looking at the door.
The ice settles. A loud voice at the bar.
A fedora on the table and the air
in the booth moving out of the way.