Brady, you went to school with pretty Kayla.
You're six feet one, soft spoken and you're handsome,
and you still haven't begged her out for dinner?
Rich girl? Easy to marry as a poor girl —
words wasted on this poet by his father.
I chickened out on marrying a woman
skittish as any mallard hen at sunrise.
Ran off. Brady, I am no friend to weddings,
but I am writing you this curtal sonnet,
confessing my long love for Kayla's mother
whose real wealth is the merit of her marriage.
All of us know how hard seed is to come by,
and land, harder to come by than a planter.