A very good friend of mine recently began writing poetry. He is an accomplished writer and yet sometimes the transition to a different style is difficult. Rick sent me the piece below. Read carefully as there is much going on in this one. Excellent job!

Charity Hosptial

In a straight chair waiting

head propped up against the wall.

A hundred people ahead of him hurting,

when they get to him, they’ll call.

He had a good job for nine years.

Then someone sent it overseas.

He lost his health insurance, too,

now God blessed death, but by degrees.

Richest nation ever

too often led off by some old clown.

In the charity hosptial,

they still wait for that trickle down.

Somewhere Walls and Gates stand

and Trumpets blare.

Down at the clinic it’s one nurse,

no beds, stale air.

Big Churches getting bigger

purpose driven, empty man.

Where is God? Down at the charity hospital

holding on to some dying hand?

Still out in the hall

watching life drain and pass him by.

He is the excess population.

Why not just let him die?