My poetry was rejected this morning,
early morning China time.
A time when people are weary, unhappy and frustrated
……facing a long and uninventive day.
The magazine gave no reasons,
just the manner of things
No emotions….. “We have decide not to keep your poems”
The curious thing for me
was that, I felt in good company.
Bukowski was rejected most days,
and Dickinson almost never published.
They just left large droppings of their lives, all around.
For people like me to pick-up,
in between reading Camus and Chomsky…..
spaces in their lives and the lives of their friends.
So, I made some coffee, drew a picture
and wrote a poem.
Not like Bukowski or Dickinson, like me.
A concrete man, then the real morning began.
A Wandering Poet 