On Writing Short Stories

When I consider how I spend my time

Submitting stories to some great slush pile,

Where often the first readers aren't sublime

Or even competent to stop and think awhile,

Where diligent adherence to assessment schemes

Results in declarations that my genius does not fit

And pours cold water over all my fondest dreams

Before they've time to read more than a page of it,

Then, then, methinks no justice dwells

In any publisher's cold, stony heart,

No future ages shall my awesome words retell

Or on a marble pedestal set them apart.

And yet - undaunted, here I am anew

Sending my treasured work, Dear Editor, to you.