The thief broke in and stole a pair of pants.
The window gave a lovely, moonlit view:
a flash of cheeks that sought their only chance.
The pants had stars of pink on ground of blue—
the perfect pair to wear when at a dance.
I ask you, now, just what was I to do?
I mourned my pants, which sparkled as they fled
while I lay in my ordinary bed.

NaPoWriMo, Day 8 prompt: Write an ottava rima, a form that requires eight-line stanzas in iambic pentameter with a-b-a-b-a-b-c-c rhyme. I have a lot of trouble with meter, so I cheated a little by just making sure my lines had 10 syllables and not stressing over the stresses. After a lot of false starts, I went with this one because I really needed to move on with my day.