We rock back and forth in our chairs,
Praying for anything at all
But the lingering submissions
That hover above our heads
And cover our small desks,
Begging each day to be read.
Here is one from a woman
Who lives on a farm in Ohio
And claims to adore turnips.
Her latest full-length manuscript
Is a series of "elegant" sonnets,
Commemorating the misbegotten root
In its magnificent glory.
Might we care to indulge
And publish at least a few gems,
With which she is willing to part.
A gentleman in the throes
Of a rather nasty divorce
Has sent us his poetry—
This long litany of complaints
Concerning his shrewish wife, Claire,
Who has stolen his car,
Quit her job at the Winn Dixie
And left town with the local pastor.
He informs us, matter-of-factly,
Should we choose to reject his work,
He may very well move to Peru.
Late at night, we picture
Sad faces and hear tearful pleas
Before we close our eyes to sleep.
In nets of recurring dreams
We lead the July 4th parade
Down Main Street in Anytown,
Pushing rust-colored wheelbarrows
Containing assorted pages,
Spilling out from their sides,
Fluttering so high in the wind
We cannot catch them all.