Getting it Done

She prints the last page of
Beauty and the Sexy Beast,
adding it to the “rush pile”.

220,000 words of either
literary genius or salable prose—
she’d take either,
as long as it got published,
and not by self.

In her customary cursive,
wearing her lucky colander,
she addresses the envelope,
when out of the corner of her bleary eye
from too many hours of staring at the screen,
she catches a typo.

“Oh, my, FSM,” she says,
and corrects it,
printing out another page
while calculating ink costs.

She stuffs it all in the envelope,
hopefully not sealed with a kiss of death,
and goes to bed,
only for her eyes to pop open as she wonders,
“Could there have been others?”

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