Poking The New Yorker Repeatedly

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On their Contact Us page,
I fill the text box with its default font:
aging Times New Roman, blah;
dominating online forms since 1996,
why does it still hold sway?

In 300 characters or less,
I attempt an explanation to the poetry editor,
including my full name
and level of celebrity on the Internet,
why TNY should publish
my teleportation poems about O. Hunt.

Done, I tab to the Choose File button,
quickly jumping from Documents to K Shawn Edgar
on the U: drive of HILLNET at work, don’t tell.
Control-clicking both O. Hunt poems,
saved earlier in TNY’s preferred PDF,
my hovering arrow selects Open, click.

I tab to the accentuated Submit button
with my left index finger, stiffly
as my right one caresses the Enter key,
its blackness cold to my hopeful priming.
In the end, though, it responds vocally
with a double, plastically report
as I press down and release,
then withdraw my hands from the keyboard
to wait it out, this ongoing courtship of TNY.

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12 thoughts on “Poking The New Yorker Repeatedly

  1. It would be so Awesome if you were in the New Yorker!
    Did you get in? Do you know yet? If not, good luck!
    Tell us what issue you get into so I can read it!
    ~~Aynsley

  2. Ha ha. Happens with me quite a lot of times, hence I could really connect with this poem.

    The hidden sarcasm is brilliant and drives the poem to the ‘interesting’ level.

    Best regards

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