I am giving myself ten minutes to write this poem
and ten years to revise it.
I have permission to use any clichés necessary
between sips of Miller High Life.
Right now I sit in a hotel in Salt Lake City.
The wind outside must come from off the lake.
I, being vain, check my hair in the mirror,
wonder if the women working the front desk are Mormon.
I have six minutes left now and must say something about love,
the universe, the exceptional woman I saw at Flathead Lake.
I do not really have the time to be very philosophical.
I wasted precious seconds typing the word philosophical.
In a mere six seconds I prayed this poem would never be published.
The woman I mentioned, the one at Flathead Lake
dove right back in my mind. I’ll get a poem about her published.
Oh lord, I am now out of time. Please send me a form rejection letter—
not you, dear editor, I want a rejection letter from God.