The email flirts from my inbox unread.
A reply from a journal I submitted
my best to many months ago.
It bats it’s eyelashes and winks,
beckoning, begging for my attention,
“Open me. I’ll show you everything.”
But like a lottery ticket, I know the odds
are against me so I hang on the hope,
resist temptation for as long as possible.
Sipping my second glass of courage,
I succumb, double-clicking my doom,
preparing to sink deeper into my chair.
My eyes scan, not really reading until,
“We would like to publish your poem…”
and my fist clenches punching the air.
I do a touchdown dance in my bathrobe
then run around the apartment,
arms outstretched like wings,
celebrating as only
Pelé and poets do.
(From this week’s Living Poetry Prompt, Elated.)