Sympathy Poem by Robert Sheridan

Tempered by scant hope,
nothing more than one –
dimensional intrusiveness, it’s
meritless at best – not
the giver’s first thought...
Reduces one to the
wringing of cold hands –
aces and eights, a
shot to the back
of your exposed head...
Left suspended – three dimensional
feel the sensation of
still being left-field hurt
you ask yourself, “why
am I still numb? ”...
What it all comes
down to – you still
sit there begging for
more, but are told
in essence, “f_ _ _ you! ”

'2008'