No mail again.
Just a letter from my Senator.
Just a check from the Army.
Nothing from her.
I guess she doesn't like my poetry.
I try to say what I feel:
(The land is surrounded by dikes;
tracing, but not describing, the sea).
I doubt that I could write her way:
(Her flowing descriptive prose
shows her mind's organization.)
So I won't try.
I like a lot of people
and they like me.
If that depended upon poetry . . .
Well, they like different things.
So I wait,
Until tomorrow . . .