My editor stopped by this morning
with my landlady,
a woman of epic proportions.
He gazed at me with a jaded eye;
poked me in the ribs and said,
“Is he ripe yet?”
“Still some meat on the bone
and his eyes aren’t glazed enough;
I need that haunted, hollow stare
buyers love so much.”
“A few more weeks and he’ll do us fine”.
The landlady nodded and took some money.
He never even looked at the manuscript.
How can I lay in my coffin and think
when they keep talking
about my future?