Sent off a novel today to be dissected
as though the words I used were resurrected
from the graveyard where unused words are sent
when they’re no longer of any use.
Like my manuscript, editors scrutinize my words
about my past for clues of future success without
regard to my exceptional ideas because they all have
subway imagery and only see profits as the next stop.
Writing is a way to work for less than minimum wage.
Unlike others on the lowest rung of the pay scale, I enjoy
getting up at the crack of dawn or before to create a story
or a poem that will welcome the light of day along with me.
When I see what I write grow and grow, I begin to believe
I have an angel or a muse, putting words into my brain until
my computer screen is full and saying things I’ve never heard.
Makes me wonder if I’m but a receptacle for another’s words.