wanna-be writer approaches the literary journals on a recent bookstore browse

Even before I get close enough to touch them, I sense their disapproval, covers closing tighter around their pages.

I'm at the door of the clubhouse trying to read the list of rules hung on the branch outside.

Their back covers read like inside jokes I don't get. Their tables of contents dare me with a smirk. The fresh, new poetry dances this way and that on the pages, never stopping too long in any one column, on any one thought. But more, the bright white leaves are heavy with prose, glossy with art, the verse ducks and weaves as I flip through, so as not to be fully discovered.

The only reason they are letting me sit at their lunch table is so they can make fun of me later. And I tap the books once, twice, on the heel of my palm, thinking, miserable, awkward, before replacing them in their slots – all the prom queen's court lined up on the float – and walk away. It is my only chance at salvation.