Nuns get my poems
and send back their blessing.
If I claimed to know why
I’d only be guessing.

One possible clue
is a theme of confession.
If you’re red as a beet,
do they make a concession?

I wish they agreed
down at The New Yorker.
All I hear back from Gotham
is “This one’s a porker.”

My wife rolls her eyes
when I roll out my verse.
Instead of a blessing
I get a curse!

“You’re a big holy roller,”
she says with a grin.
“The poor sisters fall for
your sinister spin.”

She sees cloven hooves
when I tear off my sheets,
instead of iambic
pentameter feats.