Today my mailbox held a plastic bag emblazoned “under investigation” or somesuch. Inside was an envelope that should have contained a contributor’s copy of a literary journal that had the temerity to publish a poem of mine.
Somebody, apparently before the package’s arrival at the Springfield sorting center, stole my poetry.
Should I be happy that someone stole poetry instead of a TV?
Should I expect to be detained by Garrison Keillor for not staying in touch with “The Writer’s Almanac”?
Is bewilderment an emotion?
Where do you fence blackmarket poetry?
Is someone out there collecting catharses? I kind of hope so.
If you see a poem for sale cheap with my name on it, please let me know.
