Last Mojito, The

Poetry Editors

18 THE LAST MOJITO Poetry Editors We rock back and forth in our chairs, Praying for anything at all But the lingering submissions That hover above our heads And cover our small desks, Begging each day to be read. Here is one from a woman Who lives on a farm in Ohio And claims to adore turnips. Her latest full-length manuscript Is a series of “elegant” sonnets, Commemorating the misbegotten root In its magnificent glory. Might we care to indulge And publish at least a few gems With which she is willing to part. A gentleman in the throes Of a rather nasty divorce Has sent us his poetry— This long litany of complaints Concerning his shrewish wife, Claire, Who has stolen his car, Quit her job at the Winn Dixie And left town with the local pastor. He informs us, matter-of-factly, Should we choose to reject his work, He may very well move to Peru. Bart Edelman 19 Late at night, we picture Sad faces and hear tearful pleas Before we close our eyes to sleep. In nets of recurring dreams We lead the July 4th parade Down Main Street in Anytown, Pushing rust-colored wheelbarrows Containing assorted pages Spilling out from their sides, Fluttering so high in the wind We cannot catch them all. ...