Seven Minutes in Heaven

I have seven minutes to write this poem;
well now it's six. And now I've already invested
at least a minute in writing about seven minutes
which is a boring topic, really, unless you're in
a closet in a clinch--I've never been!
--well, not the formal kind, with formal rules
(this ought to be a sonnet             one line per minute
seven minutes per pair of lips) the arranged marriage
of the middle-school set, that trying on
of partners, carousel of superserial monogamy;
like those Puritans who bound young lovers
each to each with boards. Get-to-know-you game,
I tell my students; but that's just My name's Caolan
I like cats or cupcakes, not any husband from the rec room floor