Roulette

It's gotten to the point where I can recognize 

a rejection letter straight from the salutation. 

Even an innocent Dear Whiskers 

some days contains a certain gray menace.

My psyche has a rejection reflex,

a calm shutting-down for the first few hours, 

knowing that I have the whole day’s rainbow 

to look forward to: optimistic change of plans, 

satisfied sour grapes, peaceful self-pity, 

wondering at the sublime, wounded pride, 

and the bright red cherry of indignation saved 

for right before bedtime. What do they know?

It helps to have a cat at hand (which I don’t) 

or ample and potent distractions (who doesn’t?) 

to ease you through just until it’s time to wake 

and spin the wheel of one’s inbox again.