Nub

Should I compare you to a summer’s day?
No, I don’t think so. Sometimes you complain
Your feet are cold. More often, what you say
Reminds me most of late October rain.
I might suggest you’re like a red, red rose,
But only for your thorny qualities,
And how you bend with every breeze that blows;
I’ve seen you change your mind during a sneeze.
Perhaps you’re like a recently chewed nail,
Jagged and bitten down to its rough nub,
Indicative of that old twice-told tale:
Turning your finger into a blue stub.
So many things to say, some of them true;
I fell asleep while writing about you.