The New Yorker Comes A-CallingDear Ms. K,
We heard you were thinking of submitting to The New Yorker.
We wait with bated breath for your Poem.
That twisted little vignette that slices through our thick veneers
and makes us face our cowering inconsequence.
So, come on, just submit it.
How about, you could just get up, turn on your computer again,
throw on a robe or something and get some tea,
you know, make a production of it.
It'll be a good story too, then—
compelled out from under warm covers on a snowy night,
forced to get up and unlock the gates for the unruly cows barging around up there.
No, maybe don't go with Cows.
You don't want everyone thinking of fast food joints as you're laying bare your conscience.
Those are gems, not greasy little patties passing along haplessly
from assembly lines of grass to airguns to trucks to freezers to pans to buns made of bleached wheat
from some other parallel universe— just to disappear into some walking, talking, self-aggrandizing
So, anyways, think about it superstar.