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Poem

The Paths We Choose 
   by Edmund Siejka

When I was a young writer
I read all the greats
Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Yeats, James Joyce
And so on
I could write like them I said
So I felt good about myself
And wrote a play
In the heat of August, 1976.

Beating the lines on an old portable typewriter,
Rubber mat placed under its steel frame, 
To keep from annoying the neighbors
But the walls in the East Village were thin
And next door guessed
What are you doing writing a novel?
She asked
I kept typing
And the rejections piled up
It was then I realized that I was attempting the near impossible
So I stopped.

Something came over me 
I started writing again in 1992
Two unpublished novels
And inevitably 
The mailman would trudge up the front steps
Lips pursed in a tight, thin line
Rejections coming in like a winter storm
I poured over each one trying to decipher their true meaning
But it was no use.

I wrote a poem in 2009
To my surprise it was accepted
Followed by an email from the editor 
Requesting more of my “stuff”.

Someone recommended that I give a reading 
At a local library 
Start small they advised.

And so I found myself
In a crowded room of poets and strangers
When my name was finally called
I approached the podium
Determined and focused.

After reading my piece
I searched 
The audience for their reaction 
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

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