Sitting here with pen in hand,
A letter to my congressman, or
Woman if the case may be.
Must be correct politically.
A bone to pick.
A right to wrong.
A short retort or
Missive long.
In tone polite
Or discourse as strong as
A raucous rude calliope.
Weeks go by with no reply
Until faint hope begins to die.
Then suddenly, my tired eyes see
A communique addressed to me.
Hope springs high to think that my
Epistle has received attention.
Finally, my point of view will
Get due recognition.
Instead, I get a, “Thank you, but….”
Form letters tend to blather.
Another voice discounted
As if it doesn’t even matter.
No comments:
Post a Comment