Kept the file of rejection slips, though. I need the humble pie.
I came across this submission from August 2001 to The Washington Post's "Life Is Short: Autobiography as Haiku" column:
My niece, playing with my magnetic poetry kit, spilled words all over the kitchen floor.
"Please, no dirty words on the refrigerator," I joked.
My nephew asked if I would live in my tiny apartment forever, instead of asking if I'd ever get a husband and kids.
After they left, I found one tiny, insignificant word still on the floor. I put it on the fridge, in the middle, as a reminder. It's only dirty if it tempts me:
from that tiny forever apartment