Sputterpub's Blog

I ought to take a compliment with poise,
accept a testimonial with ease.
But I’m as apt to croak a phlegmy noise
as speak politely. Seldom do I please
myself in shopping for another’s gift,
and I from what I hear don’t voice enough
appreciation in my thanks to lift
the hearts of those presenting me with stuff.

I may be on the spectrum, but it’s not
cognition that invokes a little strange.
Some manners I was taught and quick forgot,
as if I had permission to exchange
attention, and direct my energy
to plot perimeters of memory.

Before me spreads the topic coast of France:
a stop unplanned, selected as the wind
entangled Monaco. The tour’s mischance
betakes us here, a panorama spinned
because the anchors let us turn a bit,
the view resorts on shore and stepping cliffs,
the overcast now threatening to spit,
the bay unoccupied except by skiffs
that morning toted passengers to shore
and afternoon has settled for a rest.
Behind the hills lurk mountains, cities, more,
while I on chaise am feeling doubly blest:
beloved buddy absent for a time,
and me relaxed to play with metered rhyme.