My husband’s been after me
for years (he doesn’t ask for much)
to get rid of the New Yorker. Weekly
it arrives, and I study the cover, run
my fingers over the cool glossy paper, flip
open to the Table of Contents, slide
down to the red-letter heading: Poems. Whose
names are listed, which two are the chosen
ones for this issue. I’m less surprised
than I used to be, having grown
accustomed to the A-gamers. There are such
poets. Someday, I may be one—if I could
fully divest from such mundane chores
like eating and sleeping and sex. For
now, I’ll spit out the occasional good
piece. I’m not saying this will ever be
considered. I keep putting it off—
the decision. About the magazine
subscription.  Of course.