The agent held the writer figuratively in her arms
and told him, “You write wonderfully. I don’t know how you do it.
Your brilliant mind’s the source of sweet and unexpected charms.
They tumble out onto the page as if there’s nothing to it.
I can’t explain why your books’ sales have been so flat of late,
while far less worthy authors perch atop bestseller lists . . .
a mystery, but for many gifted writers, that’s their fate,
I guess. I beg you, Sid, don’t join the ranks of pessimists.
I sympathize – no, “sympathize” is not the proper term.
Rather, I empathize with you. You know, it is depressing
to place some of my clients’ work with one benighted firm
or other, and to witness their careers smoothly progressing,
when writers such as you, dear Sid, have so much more to give . . .
which brings me to my point. Oh, Sid! I’ve got so damn much work
these days, and you know, more than most, I’ve just one life to live.
I’ve had to cross you off my list. Don’t tell me I’m a jerk –
I let you go, believe me, with the deepest of regrets.
You’ll thrive, I’m confident, no matter how hard times may be.
Yours is a spirit that’s resurgent, so I’m taking bets
you’ll land an agent very soon – within two years or three.”