by Diane Hinson

Firing on all cylinders
Lord Byron entertained
The ladies swooned and sighed
I just felt well drained.

Shelley pulled up a chair
His comforting warm smile
Made me feel welcome
I always liked his style.

Keats was looking troubled
Coleridge was out his head
Mr. Elliot teased the cats
Byron was thinking of bed.

Wordsworth was lost in the hills
Blake was talking to God
Oscar was driving them wild
I just felt very odd.

What was I doing here
Transcending precious time?
Perhaps there is no reason
Perhaps there’s only rhyme.

Diane Hinson is an introverted extrovert