The sonnet I just wrote (only the second in my life, the first about eating the contents of an ashtray, which was the basis for a song I performed with my band in the eighties) captures what it’s like when two people choke each other out with alternating arguments and silence. There’s no blame; if one has mood swings and flab, the other has unkempt hair and makes chewing noises.
It is no more autobiographical than any other poem I have written. That is: there’s a mix of true for me and true for you. Poems take liberties. They are life stories, but they do not concern themselves with facts. And they are only a single moment, not thirty years. We can tolerate five minutes of crack-of-dawn “Crazy on You” because of years of good times, good smells, and good tunes.