Sonnet CCIII

If I had any superpower, I would fly
so noxious transportation would be thusly spurned
for more efficient travel of the soaring birds.
I’d fly away, up in azure of cloudless skies
without emitting toxic fumes from dirty pipes
of cars. The world would be a distant, far-off earth
because I’d be so high above, a human bird,
so graceful, tumbling, spinning, dancing in the sky.

But in the chilly winter, could I stand the cold?
I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t dare – I’m not that bold.

And thus, my crazy dreams of flying end right there.
I’d rather be wrapped up in comfy warmth than cold,
but birds, who fly and fly and fly to Mexico,
endure a massive trip for measly, humid air.

Sonnet CLXXXIV

Who are they? Bumblebees and witches, fruit.
From house to house and yard to yard they fly:
a fairy princess or an action guy;
perhaps a pumpkin, stout, rotund, and cute,
or lovely mermaids, lithe or more obtuse.
In any case, their flashlights light the night
with glowing beauty simple as their plight
of chasing candy down in scattered troupes.

And “trick or treat!” they call, but only “thanks”
are whittled out of them when parents chide,
apologise, and carry them away.
Though happy with their sweet and chocolate weight,
soon all our little demons flee inside,
exhausted, thirsty, itchy, pulling pranks.