Paying the postage for my rejections
is the last in a long list of random humiliations
heaped upon me by editors who,
because I am not friends
with their sister-in-law’s cousin’s gay lover,
probably didn’t read my story
to begin with – but instead,
gave it to an intern
who still believes
her Contemporary Lit Professor
is the last word on literary merit;
even though he probably got a PhD
because he knew enough to know
he lacked the imagination to write
and that it was easier
to deconstruct the work
of larger minds
possessing bigger balls
than his entire list
of professional publications
can pretend to.
