Expecting so much,

Needing so much,

And the poet

Delivers so little.

We turn away

In disgust.

He did his best;

She tried hard

To give form

To her love and grief.

Not their fault

That it fell flat

And we were not moved.

Maybe an old poem

You must find

In a book

On a dusty shelf.

Or one not

Written yet.

One you write yourself.