Fixing Her Wagon
Shall I compare thee to a tinker's dray?
Thou art more broad-beamed and less sensibly ornate.
Bronz'd cowbells that doth swing doth say
the services they vaunt are far more delicate
than your misguided taste you think divine:
thy Easter bonnet seen immensely-brimmed
sets off, for common view, a vacant mind
from which tresses flow by stylists trimmed
to flagrant flaunt the hair you've purple dyed
in Clairol's promise, worthy of its boast,
while nothing that I do can turn your tide
of red-ink oceans washing up my coast.
So long as mind can seethe at female sham,
there's nothing for it but a tinker's damn.
by Harvey Steinberg
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At age 83, in Lawrenceville NJ, Harvey Steinberg finally decided he needs a steady career, so he's gone into unremunerated creative writing. He writes in whatever genres he feels like—recently journalism and history with his wife Marcia. He's published poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and whatnot. Whynot?