The Freedom of a Sonnet

Freedom’s the movement of lines in a sonnet
Though every tenth syllable coughs up a rhyme
And every second has stress laid upon it
And if it’s done rightly it ends on a dime
After one hundred forty, on a coupleted line.
Predictable as sin, with its own mid-life crisis,
Spinning its happiness into regret
Like a wide-eyed zealot-for-god joining ISIS
Then coming to find they’re a murderous sect.
So we go through our lives eating breakfast at seven
And driving to work with the radio on
Then home come to supper, to bed at eleven--
Love, suffer and sweat through our little duration
And, inside that frame, make our peace with creation.