“We're not going to be able to keep anything from this submission, we're sorry to say. Thank you, though, for letting us have a chance with your work.”
Delusions of grandeur long since
dissolved, it still smarts when the
slip arrives, especially after long
pondering, then sending & after
forgetfulness settles. And then,
perhaps more, when it arrives ink-
less, gracious & yet inhumane.
(Or is it un-human?) Long past
type-script, manu-script, even
word processed & print-pushed,
just a computerized auto-reply,
voiceless, fingerless, stampless.
A pulse-less thank you, but no chance.
It is difficult to paper the walls with
self-printed rejection. But trouble
is saved in not looking for fingerprints.
They are only mine, and I should
have known better. Better luck next time.
Remember, friend: "Hope takes work; it’s time to get our hands dirty." Doesn't take away the sting, but keep those fingerprints ink-stained.
ReplyDelete*hugs*
How ironic that you'd write such a good poem about not getting a poem accepted. At least you're sending stuff out, which is more than most do.
ReplyDeleteWell, aren't you guys the bee's knees! Thanks friends.
ReplyDelete