Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

He’s sitting up alone.  His friend sends lines

As tasty as a morning glory made

Of cardboard.  Purple morning glory vines

Behind his house are not what he has prayed

For all his life, but they will have to do.

He wanted natural love from just one heart

To his.  Instead he sits alone with stew

Of many things which sneeringly impart

Ingredients that fail to give the love

Of holy supplications.  With his cat

He sits alone in silence, pet above,

Which tells him God is less than pouting brat.

  The greetings, platitudes and mild clichés

    Are helpful as a worn down donkey’s brays.