The novels I didn’t write
are pristine and perfect in my head
and better than the dusty musty manuscripts
typed, decaying on your top shelf.
There is probably a line
in one of my unwritten opa
(opuses? Opera?
Opi? OPI!)
about the bugs eating away
at your unwanted text
while mine are forever clean.

There is something elegant
regal even
about the unread word
the epic unheard
the poem unknown
the perfect game unthrown.
That is my throne
and I have already ascended
without taking a single step.

Enjoy the writing
and the editing
and the printing
and the mailing
and the waiting
and the waiting
and the waiting
and the
and the receiving.

Enjoy returning the manuscript
to the top shelf
or the bottom.
Whatever.
I’ve got a preferable plan.
I’ve got my novels vaulted away
to their final destination
with an audience
who will most appreciate them.