I gather up a few poems to submit
to Zzzz Magazine, put them in an envelope,
affix a stamp with first-class postage,

step out to the front porch just as
the mailman, coming from the neighbors,
cuts across the frozen tundra of my lawn,

fumbling for my mail in his bag,
rounding the corner. I meet him at
the top of the stairs, hold out

the envelope with my poems, when
it dawns on me he is the editor himself.
He takes the envelope, sniffs it,

hands it back and says, “Nope,”
and is on his way, walking down
my driveway, slipping a little on the ice.


  1. Jonathan Webb says

    What about Updike!

  2. Rufus McCain says

    I submitted the poem again, revised. The Z-guy sent the damn poem to him again. And Mr. U sent me another note, again. It just arrived in the mail two days ago. I’m not kidding.

  3. Jonathan Webb says

    Its about time!

  4. Rufus McCain says


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