When Poetry Becomes...Whatever This Is
This will be my last poem for a while. I actually ran out! I didn't think it was possible, but I haven't written anything in a while. This poem is a work in progress. The Title says it all, actually. I have no idea where it came from. Unlike my other poems, I didn't write this in five minutes. I've been adding to it for a few days now. I'm still not sure it's finished.
I hope this letter finds you well
All of us are pretty swell
Mother’s sick, the baby’s dead
I have a pain up in my head
Father lost his job last week
My brother’s now a chimney sweep
Gran left on the stove all night
The house burned down, what a fright
Now we live with Grandpa Sam
He really is the strangest man
He served us boiled boots for lunch
We choked them down, ‘thanks a bunch’
They raised our taxes fifteen times
None can pay, the greedy swines
We’re having really awful weather
I hope that things for you are better
I’d write you more than once a week
But postage isn’t very cheap