It’s Sunday so I’m writing you a letter
I’ll tell you of the moments I enjoyed
Don’t worry cos I know I will get better

I wonder if a female poet’s coy
When she will not meet another’s eyes
When she thinks her cell phone is a toy

I’m mainly honest but sometimes I tell lies
Kant’s imperative can bring such joy
Then a doctor hints that I shall die

I learned that my own husband was annoyed
He wanted to divorce me but he fled
He was sort of introverted , shy.

He was very tender when in bed
He called me private names I can’t reveal
His skin broke out in hives when we were wed

I think that bad emotions were concealed
Hiding in the space between the lines
I drank so much my lips became unsealed

Well,we must make an end and that is fine
My hospitality goes downhill at times
Jesus was a Prophet, that’s a sign
The Word is stammered, flesh, oh flesh divine