The New Yorker

The New Yorker

I am have just come to
terms with the idea that I may
never be in The New Yorker;

I will also probably never
be a national book award
winner

I will definitely never, no
not ever, win a MacArther
Genius Grant, at least not for this;

if I am a genius, it will be in
the kind of way that someone
calls a neighbor that word, in their

family or after a few drinks, but I
don't even think I am the smartest person
in this conversation;

you must be doing me or
someone else some kind of
favor, if you have read this

far.

But, as the daffodils and the heather
still bloom together, I will not stop,
I will not cease, for my fingers
are at the whim of some terrible master;
they burst like the throat of a Starling
on a telephone wire, mimicking a car alarm.