This is a poem, 

What else do you want?

You got what you asked for,

Since lightning struck your Internet modem.

You in your desperate times called upon me,

And asked for a poem.

I’ve delivered,

I know that by now, no one around you seems to feel pity.

I know you can’t repair that modem,

How broke you are.

She was right,

You couldn’t make it then…or now.

You wanted a poem to call upon,

I am not that kind of poem.

I’m that poem you don’t like,

And are embarrassed to have enjoyed at some point.

I’m that stack of loose papers you don’t throw away,

Solely because there may be important documents inside.

I’m that box of cables that you don’t take to the scrapyard,

Just because you’re afraid you’ll need one for something.

A heavy burden you can’t get rid of,

That is me,

That is you, 

And that is this poem.

I can rhyme if I want,

I can say your face looks gaunt,

I can not rhyme at all,

And leave you completely unsatisfied.

I’m a poem, 

If you couldn’t tell, I play with words,

I can make you grand forests of trees or speedy and true gazelle herds,

I’m a poem and that’s who I am.

Oh? You’re going to get evicted?

Better bring me with you,

And that stack of loose papers, 

And that box of cables.

Not like you’ll need them,

They’ll get destroyed in the rain anyways.