Ode to an Editor

For words must live by worth alone
Or face such shameful crumpling oblivion,
To be ripped mercilessly from the whole;
Oft' revealing hidden glory,
That the whole might please its critics
For smiling reviews and soaring sales.

And what of our readers -- what of them?
They who readeth only finished copy
Knoweth not they sad trails of crumpled paper;
Nor the blood and sweat speckling once-virgin lines,
Punctuating some writer's happy little muse.

Knoweth not they of all the haunted sleepless nights
As imperfect pages fan endlessly through our troubled minds;
Nor the mind-numbing agony of the 13th pass through a tattered hell:
Of wordage, grammar, deadlines and shattered weekends,
Of picknics and parties missed -- and of teary-eyed children;
As we strive to feed the heart and minds of humankind...

Copyright © 1999