An English sonnet wherein any resemblances to people living or dead is purely coincidental. Inspired, of course, by Richard Lovelace’s Song (To Lucasta, Going to the Wars).
Going Out
Yes, dear, I'm going out, though it's past ten-- But don't wait up; relax your aching head, stay: watch TV, or chatter to a friend, sleep and warm our sanctimonious bed. Where? Though any answer can't suffice or satisfy this pure, protective question let's say the store to fetch a bag of ice a prop to freeze my fiery intention. An affair? What could that offer me? Besides furtive eyes and red smiling lips, besides impulsive sex, and mystery-- these toys can't touch our anchored, wedded ships. Don't say a word; parting is sweet sorrow! I'll return by twelve, or, at worst, tomorrow.
