A Story

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.





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