The Work of Such Days

Each day I write a sonnet, if I can,
Although some days are headache-makers: flat,
Uninteresting, and unhelpfully pat,
Resulting in an inspiration ban,
So I might write something like this, a man
Without a conscience, taken to the mat
Attempting verse without the proper hat.
My beret's missing. So is any plan.

The volta comes: I'm turning on a dime —
Look how the antique wheelchair whipped and spun —
A sestet shoots out, like a rotten pun.
I've got no reason, but I have a rhyme
And metrical command, playing with time
Until the sonnet's done. Not good, but done.