Torrid Poem by Patti Masterman

There is this torrid,
This unconscionable rhyming of words,
Because of syllable count
Or ending letters.

Expedient poetry
Is like passionless
Clockwork sex, sans foreplay
With any stranger
Who comes into view

The happening hour of any day;
It's too convenient-
Who could say no?
But you know, you'd better not.

Scrabble word poetry
Is not as enjoyable
As the random scatter of life
Inviting us to solve an inscrutable puzzle.

(I’m trying to go through the twelve step program
for not writing pre-digested poetry.
It’s going to take some doing..lol)