33 Degrees

a stranger
phoned
to discuss
why his poems
weren't in print
I asked how
many mags
he'd tried per poem

"at least 6"
he said
as if 6 meant
he'd suffered

immensely

"try 30"
I said
I hung up
climbed
the stairs & sat
at my desk
the phone rang
I walked down
it was

him

30
he said
would be
"inappropriate"
given the quality

of his
"art"--which

he added

was better
than anything
he'd read of mine

"then try
60" I said

this time he
hung up first
I re-climbed
the stairs
sat & failed
to write

absorbed only
by how

painstakingly

the sun
works
to melt
snow

copyright 2004 Mark Wisniewski
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