To the Editor

by Pete Lee

This poem does not rhyme
nor does it capitalize the word Time,
Spring, or Dust. There are no cats in this poem,
chasing metaphysical balls of string
when they're not hogging the sofa.
Kissy, kissy, I love no one
for the purposes of this poem.

This poem is not about a poem.
It does not obfuscate the issue
of drenched nuns fleeing naked from my door,
leaving me: alone, alone. No preaching
or self-pity in this Goddamned poem,
no wanton profanity or chopped
prose. I have studied your magazine.
Please send sample copy.

A cattle prod against the genitals
shocks in sing-song pentametric iambs,
whereas this poem would not stoop so
                                       low.

To establish that I have no reputation,
please call my good friends at Harper & Row.

You won't find this poem on any greeting cards.
                                       Best regards,

P.S. I think this is what you wanted to see.

Pete Lee lives with his wife in Ridgecrest, California, where he works as an independent bookseller. His poetry has most recently appeared in the online journals Antithesis Common, The 13th Warrior Review, Alba, The Country Mouse, Shampoo, and The Rose & Thorn.