By James Bono
Twas the night before Thursday. Throughout Martins’ store
Rishonda was browbeating us to write more.
“Ten pages are sent every Sunday by peak
agile writers. So how was your week?”
Elevator pitches graced those who would dare,
in hopes that Saint Gregory soon would be there.
Each writer was nestled all snug in his seat
while visions of publishing contracts loomed sweet.
And Bill with his laptop, Suzan with iPad
knew what it was like, because published they had.
When out in the parking lot rose such a clatter
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a geek,
pushed sideways the curtain and I took a peek.
The mercury vapor lights lit up the cars
all silently parked on the asphalts and tars.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
but a miniature sleigh and a herd of friends dear.
With a little old driver as agile as myth
I knew it a moment it must be Greg Smith.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Now Sharon, now Ursula, Kevin and Ken,
On Kristen, on Lisa, on Elsie and then
There goes Larry and Anthony, Whitney and Grace,
And Jackie and Jane and old what’s-his-face.
Run Katie, run Sarah, Marlene and Michelle,
gain altitude Glory, we’ve stories to tell!
Go Catherine, go Christine, go Angel and Paul,
A great Hero’s Journey awaiteth you all!
“From the handicapped parking, to the tow-away zones
now all pay attention and silence your phones.”
While some of them entered and made for the stairs
others bought dinner to bring to their chairs.
So up to the second floor room they all flew,
with their heads full of tales of a hero or two.
And then in a twinkling I heard through the door
the sounds of their footsteps plying the floor.
As I drew in my head and was turning around
to Martins’ conference room Greg came with a bound.
He wore business casual from his head to his foot
and his pockets were places where pens he had put.
A bundle of gizmos he wore on his back,
the latest electronics thence to unpack.
His eyes how they twinkled, with intensity stared,
so not meeting their quota of pages none dared.
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
but the beard on his chin he refused to let grow.
Since Martins’ wi-fi did not always connect
Greg’s smart phone as hot spot was there to correct.
He spoke many a word, not a duty did shirk,
reviewing his movies and publishing work.
Then at 8 o’clock sharp the main meeting did end;
half the group he would keep, half away he would send.
But I heard him exclaim as I left to critique,
“Which of your stages did you write this week?”
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO THE AGILE WRITER FAMILY!
MAY THE NEW YEAR SEE YOU ALL PUBLISHED!