Suppertime Sonnet Stories: In Which An Author Is Screwed From The Get-Go

"Well, Boyd, I think it's time we had a talk:
The public wants the story of your life --
These things still make bank! -- and  if you should balk
At all the work, well, I think that my wife
Would be a fine ghost-writer." "Well, I think
That sounds just fine," Boyd told his agent. "Wait!"
His mom said, on the conference call, "Don't drink
A toast on that just yet. I may be late
In telling you, but your dad's gambling caused
Some problems, so we kind of sold the rights
To your biography. And it was claused
In perpetuity." "When?" "You were mites."
"Who has the copyright now?" "It's been sold
So many times I'm clueless. And I'm old."

Suppertime Sonnet Stories: In Which @BlazingBetta Needs To Return To CrossFit

The blaze of Betta set the car on fire
Just as she walked past it, among all those
Parked wildly there. Now now, I am no liar:
When she fails to go lifting, e'en her nose
Gives off such energy as would explode
A lesser being. As a consequence
The car combusted (no, this did not bode
Too well for next year!) and, scarce minutes hence,
So did the parking lot entire when she
Returned from buying new weightlifting gear
(Those gloves are vital!). Now it's up to we
Who love her, and the earth, to gamely cheer
As Sarah heads on back to hit the gym!
If we don't, then our prospects grow quite dim.

In Which I Subtly Pimp An Anthology

The mirror which confronts us ev'ry morn,

So often holds such secrets, we believe,

As only we have known since we were born,

Has watched us smile and wonder, even grieve.

What would it say to us if it could speak?

What secrets does it hide beyond its edge?

And knowing us as it does, just how weak

And sometimes strong we are, what could it dredge

From memory to show the world if such

Were possible? What horrors, if exposed

This way, could ruin us? Reach out and touch

Its surface. What? There is none? You supposed

A thing with that much power would just let

You do that? Now, see what else you will get.

In Which I Consider A Bout of Furniture Shopping

The office in my house is where I'm at:

It's full of desks, typewriters, books and stuff,

Including my computer (fancy that!).

These days I'm finding, though, it's not enough.

I've recently come late to a new game:

Of pod'iobooks - recordings of new works

By authors who tweet with me, know my name,

And sometimes read my sonnets. Only jerks

Accept attention but don't give it. Shame!

To rectify this I there dipped my toe,

And Rossi, Sigler, Lafferty and more

Grabbed onto it and pulled me down below,

And carried me far from the peaceful shore.

I'm happy there to swim, but now I find

My office chair is numbing my behind.

One Way In Which My Job Is More Fun Than Most -- And I Hope My Mother Shows This Sonnet To My Father

I work for the same outfit who employed
My father through the years I was a child.
There are few left who knew him. Most enjoyed
His presence, voice, laugh and the way he smiled
His way through all, even the roughest calls,
E'en when like a defensive line they heaped
Upon and buried him. Each one recalls
An anecdote about him. All are steeped
In humor and in long-forgotten lore
From days in which the difference was great
Between what was and was not proper for
A worker for our great ol' Cowboy State.
Today a few old farts came by , so glad
To see me and to pass on jibes at Dad.