Old poet

 

I find it much easier now

in the Atlantic, New Yorker, Sun,

to yawn at poems about nothing --

 

depression, sanity on the run, priests 

preying on nuns. All need be done,

hint at naked prayer, spread wide

 

for redemption, life's bosomed end.

So little depends on anything

when limp metaphors droop and bend.

                                Timothy Pilgrim