Hi, It's Me, Evelyn!

Finally I get to show you my work!

Hi! It’s me, Evelyn, the office assistant—the one whose name Mr. George can’t remember, and don’t you dare tell him. Speaking of our lofty Publisher, today’s his birthday! I knew it was his birthday because I like remembering birthdays, but I couldn’t possibly have forgotten. He put a sign on his office door that says “No entry except on official party business.” But then people didn’t go in, so he put up a second sign that says, “Not really. Come in and wish me a happy birthday!” So I don’t think he’d mind my telling you.

I bet that’s the reason he didn’t come into the office today. If he wrote an article for the front page, I can’t find it in his desk, and there’s nobody in the writers’ room, either, so I guess that means I’m on my own. But don’t worry—I have the perfect thing!

I keep showing Mr. George my poems, and he keeps saying he’ll print one “when the time comes,” but the time never comes. Until now!

Et, Poets
by Evelyn West

I think that I shall never know
A tree as shady as a po
Et squinting by a burned-down can
Dle, clutching a cup with a broken han
Dle. Crossing out words with a chewed up pen
Cil, chained at her desk till she’s going men

Tal. Poets’ trunks are made of in
K, commas are their blossoms pin
K. Words are the leaves they spread out wid
E, flowing lines are the limbs they prid
E. Seeding where others dare not grow
That’s the life of the wind-blown po

(Isn’t that good? I have more!)