Woe is Me

I busted my literary behind,

preparing a manuscript that’s

either morbid or memorializing

depending on perception.

Amateur miscalculation in ink remaining

to be remedied, by easy roll to local library

than the post office for first class mail

to San Francisco.

Massive smear down every page

marks freshly printed manuscript

necessitate Monday morning overnight

mail to meet deadline.

 Three weeks later entry fee check

remains uncashed.  Poet sweats,

thinking she’d rather pay a bank overdraft fee

to know her entry check was received._{­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­}