You just had a poem
Rejected by the New Yorker.

The foul smell of defeat, you’re accustomed to,,
Volatilizes like a solution of slippery ether.

And all that remains at the end,
Is a different aether, the fifth element

Flaming on your sixth sense,
No phlogiston, just a perfect medium,

With no room for air, fire, earth nor water,
Cheering you on to a somewhat bullet-proof moment,

When you graft a victory, that
Is both pyrrhic and melancholic,

Like the moment I finally lost my virginity
On the marriage bed – I was 38 years old.

I was no longer a virgin, perhaps only a little bewildered
At how overrated making love was. Sigh!

Now I look at my name on a journal page,
– A published poet; and all I want to do

Is to get on bed, to reenact love
For the umpteenth time.

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