a mirror image
of how it should be—
a slap for each good deed:
an invitation extended,
a lift to the doctor.
the manuscript read
complete with revision.
Each time I’ve been scorned:
another rejection,
no offer to interview,
no rainbow bobbing on the horizon.
And so I say,
Karma screw you.
Have you forgotten,
or are you looking for a laugh.
Either way, I wonder
if I withhold my hand
and shove
the pleading party off a cliff
will you reward me?
Will you finally confer
the contract I desire
the success that continues to elude
the happiness I seek
but cannot find?
Or will you continue to punish
until I am crushed—
bleeding and dying
no hope of salvation?
Except in a new life—
reborn
in termite form.