Congratulations! I didn't get the job.
Useful degrees never bore my name,
but the inside covers of used paperbacks did.
Tolstoy, Ferlinghetti and Bronte made poor references,
had no current phone or email,
and though I came to know them well, they had little to say about me.
Way to go! I stayed for years in part time positions
because there was staring out the window to be done,
bad poetry to be written,
and rain to be contemplated.
Fan-freaking-tastic! The acrimonious divorce,
the shit-canning of thirteen years of trying to be
respectable, and all that jazz.
So sorry, Mr. and Ms. Notgoodenough.
Hello, solitude. Hello to bashing away at the hunk of marble
inside of which I had been hiding.
I got rid of my slave name.
I loved several wrong but exciting persons,
too much and briefly, but oh boy. (though most of them weren't.)
And now here I am. Ta-da!
With the house on fire,
my tail on fire,
and my words on fire.
Don't call 9-1-1, I want to burn.
Somewhere, in some non-existent suburban shadowland,
there is a sensible person who put her books away
along with her red shoes.
She is liked, I guess, by all,
whoever she is,
blinking on and off as required, like a traffic light.
For Izy's Out of Standard at Real Toads.