What right have we to happiness?
None.  But I guess
the instinct goes
too deep, and flows
beneath the damaged years, the mess -
a primal yes.
Despite the blows,
the bleak althoughs
which signal - daily - SOS,
the heart yo-yos
and trusts rainbows.

So I believe (while you undress)
in life’s largesse.
Tonight, all woes,
all quid pro quos,
all premonitions of distress,
we shall suppress.
Here, now, time slows,
all its side shows
outside this room are in recess.
Such moments bless:
we’re friends, not foes -

till the cock crows.

Tom Vaughan

This is a Minute poem - written in stanzas of 60 syllables, in a tight rhyming form. Apparently the form was designed for comic verse, but Tom has stretched it a bit.

If you have any thoughts on the  poem, or on the form,  Tom Vaughan  would be pleased to hear them.