Look out universe, here it comes!

I submitted a poem to the poetry prize for the Indiana Review.  I have no illusions about my chances, but I feel a little thrill of excitement just the same!  I embrace rejection, and I temper this with a smidgen of hope. 

I don't usually write poetry.  Frankly, I don't get most poems.  What the hell do these random assortments of words mean anyway?  During a writing workshop we had a particularly interesting prompt, and Benedetto was born.  The funny thing was, I actually liked my poem!  With a line like "it's the pig cheese," how could I not?

I've done a fair bit of reading today.  Add another 90 minutes to the total.