Dear Diary:
Romeo, my Alfa Romeo, I grieve
as I do drive thee ’round the city block,
perchance to see another carriage leave
that I may seize the place to park and lock
thee. If I cannot find a spot for free
(though eyes do scan like love’s voracious sight),
the cruel garage will charge me fifty-three
dollars plus tax and tip for just one night.
Still, with thee garaged I’d have no anxious fit
what thief, through yonder window breaking, might
take my E-ZPass, my radio, then slit
the leather seats and canvas roof, for spite.
Good night, good night. Parking is such sweet sorrow
that I may take a bus or cab tomorrow.
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