|Very articulate. Very professional. Winning attitude.|
Today's poem is posted with Miss Yen in mind, and I wish her the best of luck in her job hunt. But really, it's for all of us who have undergone (over and over again) this customary ritual of equivocation. It originally appeared in the Winter 2013 issue of The Puritan.
Marcus McCann (b. ?)
A graceful arrangement of the baubles of your enthusiasm.
Why you matter, retail. An explanation of how
you were gingerbreaded from the dough of their firm at birth.
Your motto is avoidio missteppus. Your interest in grammar
grows abnormally. You long for font synergy.
Your other motto is Chuck Norris does not apply for jobs;
jobs apply for Chuck Norris. You're ridic. In take two, you simmer
your illustrious history into six slick bullet points. Later,
you cut the least glimmering facet. Autocorrect will react
like a crisis counsellor. The person you are describing
is awesome, you realize, or pathological. Your draft reflects you
the way a can of Diet Coke does. You delete If I were a question,
I would be burning because it is an awkward topic sentence.
In draft three, you shift the Most Polished Paragraph
into The Power Position. It is above you. You count to ten.
You mamabird your rebuttals into the beaks
of their tacit objections. You pour in "professional register"
as if from a tap of weak beer. Sincerely, you write, sincerely.