A Sonnet on Wild Honey Pie

I see too many hands at face
the world around, the broad appeal,
the kneeling fans, all gals, prints clash. Ringo
knocks his drink into your lap.
When all together sound shrinks up
the scale and tumbles down, the bass
guitar needs tuning, now the screams
are coming through their mics. After
“Wild Honey Pie” there’s cloves on the track
and if you turn the left speaker up
you’ll get the whistle down pat. Laugh,
I’m serious as Yoko, hand claps
nothing similar, none digital, no finger
pointing out a tiny word written on the ceiling.

William Roby lives and works in exile in New Jersey. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming at 32 Poems, Umbrella, Stirring, and others. He believes in the serial comma.