As a young man, my father
submitted a book of poems
to an editor, who returned it.
Edit it, he told him.
That night, my father
burned the poems
in a wheelbarrow
behind the garage.
As a young man, my father
submitted a book of poems
to an editor, who returned it.
Edit it, he told him.
That night, my father
burned the poems
in a wheelbarrow
behind the garage.