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.