The poet

This morning while reading The New Yorker (yes, I am that hoity of a toit) I came across a poem by a former professor of mine, Mark Doty. Seven years ago I attended a barbecue at his house. He lived in a small, but lovely house in the avenues with his partner and their two dogs. His house looked like the house of a poet. I wanted it. I wanted to move right in and plop my fat ass down on his plush sofa. The guest bathroom was next to the kitchen. It was cramped and it's walls were papered with rejection letters from The New Yorker magazine. In class, he taught us many valuable lessons, but the one I learned while sitting on his toilet has stuck with me the most. He embraced his rejection and used it to fuel his future success.
I want to harness that. I want to do the same.
Congratulations Professor Doty...sorry, I never got chummy enough with you to call you Mark.