The Manuscript-a poem

The Manuscript
By Anna J. Boll

Two copies of my WIP
bounce and zip
through Manhattan island
postal machines  
"Priority"
to my agent
and
(cross-your-fingers)
editor.  

This closure
brings lightness.
Removing work.
Cleaning the desk.
Sending it away.
But then you wait.

Waiting is not light
or heavy
but  a spasm,
a knot
twisting your gut
whenever you remember
the WIP
is out of your control.

Perhaps some one is reading it,
or it is in the  to- be- read pile,
or it is in a tote bag
hauled back and forth
on the subway
(are the clean pages now crumpled and coffee stained?),
or maybe
(God forbid)
they didn’t want it in the first place. 

The good thing about waiting
is that it is not yet,
no.