One hundred forty syllables I’ll choose.
I won’t elide, apostrophize or cheat
by forcing metric tricks. The theme I’ll use
is autumn on my cheeks, beneath my feet,
around my neck as I proceed down Rose,
at half past ten half past October’s spin.
The air is crisp enough to chill: my toes
in sandals, undraped throat, and doubling chin.

My head is fogged from conference fatigue
but autumn slickness soothes a crowded brow.
My neck is stiff and I’ve an aching knee;
the remedy is weather soft as now.
I’m happier today than I’d have thought
last week, when I enrolled and I was taught.