The Feast of St. Valentine

     Here is an attempt to write a sonnet.  It was not until after I had written it, though, that I realized I had misremembered the rhyme scheme and not written a Shakespearean, Petrarchan, or Miltonic sonnet. Instead, I had invented my own form, which I have dubbed the Moronic, since the rhyming couplets in the middle of the three quatrains seem to rob the poem of forward momentum, so it just stands there and drools, then suddenly lurches to an ending.  Let me know what you think.
    This was composed to be read at a Valentine's Day dinner with friends this past Monday. (I hope they don't mind my using it for a public blog.) The recipe for the heart-shaped meat loaf, the whimsical main course for this meal, is sheer conjecture since I didn't make it- plus,it leaves out the central physical ingredient, the ground beef.

                                                The Feast of St. Valentine


                                    A heart-shaped meat loaf must be made by hand,
                                    for it’s a true main course, not some cookie cutter sweet.
                                   They can’t make molds for such a custom treat.
                                   No mere form can make the mundane grand;
                                   the trick is to have opposites enhanced –
                                   onion’s sharp sting set off by sugar’s soft swirl,
                                   mustard’s tart tang causes ketchup’s sweetness to unfurl.
                                   In culinary counterpoint, all must sing and dance.
                                   Then the separate voices must be made into one.
                                   They need to be kneaded, by egg and oatmeal bound,
                                   until this varied chorus makes one tasty, joyful sound
                                   to be popped in the oven until the blending’s done.
                                   But more essential than the dish are the friends who dine upon it.
                                  They make any meal more nourishing than this, my occasional sonnet.