I keep
Rejection
Letters
In
A
File.
End
To
End,
They
Might
Span
A
Quarter
Mile.
They
Usually
Complain
Of
My
POV,
Which
Is
A
Mystery
To
Me.
I read
My
Stuff
Through
And
Find
Nothing
More
I care
To
Do.
I don’t
Seem
To
Fit
The
Accepted
Norm,
Hence,
The
Rejection
Form,
Printed
Out
By
The
Score
And
Sent
Not
Just
To
Me,
But
Thousands
More.
I go
Right
On,
Only
Slightly
Dented,
With
The
Stories
I’ve
Fomented.
I’m
Not
Hemingway,
But
Then,
I think
With
Wicked
Glee,
By
The
End,
Neither
Was
He.