Poking The New Yorker Repeatedly

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On their Contact Us page,
I fill the text box with its default font:
aging Times New Roman, blah;
dominating online forms since 1996,
why does it still hold sway?

In 300 characters or less,
I attempt an explanation to the poetry editor,
including my full name
and level of celebrity on the Internet,
why TNY should publish
my teleportation poems about O. Hunt.

Done, I tab to the Choose File button,
quickly jumping from Documents to K Shawn Edgar
on the U: drive of HILLNET at work, don’t tell.
Control-clicking both O. Hunt poems,
saved earlier in TNY’s preferred PDF,
my hovering arrow selects Open, click.

I tab to the accentuated Submit button
with my left index finger, stiffly
as my right one caresses the Enter key,
its blackness cold to my hopeful priming.
In the end, though, it responds vocally
with a double, plastically report
as I press down and release,
then withdraw my hands from the keyboard
to wait it out, this ongoing courtship of TNY.

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2 thoughts on “Poking The New Yorker Repeatedly

  1. The trepidation of submissions wonderfully articulated. I dream of a time when journals contact me to request a poem. If I’m lucky this might be a posthumous honour. I also dream of a day when I’m confident enough to submit to the New Yorker, hitting that ‘submit’ button is an incredible achievement within itself.

    Like

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