Franked

I said, Some say the world will end in ice,
Not loving a wall. She said, We don’t confuse
Coldness with poetry; I hate clerihews
As much as you, but dammit, there’s a price
For all this crap you’re spewing. Roll the dice,
I offered: is a talent to amuse
The same as grace? A frank exchange of views,
She called it. I called it something less nice.

Be brave, I said, teasing her appetite
For cleverness. You’re just an autoclave,
She said to me, a hot, high-pressured slave
To serious, deep thought. I said, you’re slight.
But you’re the coward, she insisted; fight,
Stand up for that light verse you really crave.