The Lion Tamer

Yeah, her fur like bloody saffron.
At least she ain't got a mane.
The girls are fiestier, though,
got more bite in em. More bitter.

Hello, how's it going? No, stay, she won't bite my hand.
I know how to deal with these. You get em
up against the walls, corner em,
make em feel scared.

Yeah, look, see-- that's how you do it.
Like you're Dole and they're goddam
pineapples in a can.

I've been sick. But more poetry class stuff.

It's now official: my poetry "teacher" is a dumbass who I do not respect a single iota.
However, this doesn't mean I can't glean something from the course, right?
Here's a sonnet I wrote today in class which I kind of liked. The assignment was to write about a block you know really well or something. I totally blew it off and wrote about a scene I came across earlier today. Mostly I guess I like the way it fits the form; less sure about the content.

WEST CLIFF SONNET

A white-hot spot up on my beating right.
There is a tree which flattens to make shade,
and here two gossipping old ladies walk,
and hear a shy musician try his trade.
A flock rolls by. Twentysomething women,
all pushing plush and multicolored strollers.
The carted chat drifts by: Today she slept
so well. Today he ate. And how is yours?
They look at me alone and unstretchmarked
and I shift to the water, blue and brighter
than any baby's eyes, its glitter-ripple
always alive, always alive. I'm lighter,
but should my helium be weighted down?
Unburdened, I still dream of greater towns.