To the people
who will reject
me—I am not
mad. I understand
that there are
writers better than
me—that is ok.

I think I am
trying to teach
myself to learn
that rejection does
not imply a lack
of something—it’s
more about taste.

Perhaps you liked
the way the poem
before mine played
with lines like a
sticks—stacking them
higher and higher
to become one
great fire work.

Or maybe hers,
the girl you read
after me, reminded
you exactly of the
time in summer where
you would sit outside
and popsicles flew
down the slide of
your chin—you were
so innocent and smiley
then.

And me—
here I am, trying
to have a dialogue
with you when I
should be working
to reveal some mystery
of the universe! I
beg your pardon, Sir
or Miss.

This is only
the prologue—the
dumb show before
I run behind the
curtains, but not
to be the Wizard of
Oz—no booming sound
or great green lights
will shoot from my
mouth.

But, oh—here’s
my cue and I
am already in front
of you. (I wasn’t
ready for that, were
you?)

There’s a bit of
lint on my black
shirt, and gosh
these heels make
me six foot! Yet
here’s your face, and
you are sitting before
me like my unborn
children waiting
for a story.

In this moment
I will live for
you—see my cry
and think—but as
soon as this poem
is over, I will die,
and wait to be
resurrected until
the next poem.