The Myth of Wile E

Busy Signal

After the news story aired, dozens of people came from as far away as West-Westfield and Clifford Kill Hill to see if I was touched in the head. Everyone complained that I was awfully hard to find and should maybe put up some signs or something.

My coffee can started filling up, mostly with pennies, nickels, and dimes—even the occasional quarter. If the electric company tried to call my coffee can, they would probably get a busy signal.

I counted it all up and realized that I'd made about twelve cents a poem. Which, considering it cost me ten cents a poem to print them out at the library, meant I was clearing about two cents a poem, which is probably a lot more than most poets made nowadays . . . or thenadays, for that matter.

I was coming out ahead about eighteen cents on a good day; less if it was rainy or really hot or a Wednesday.

If I kept going at this rate, I'd be able to redeem my house in about . . . forty-five years.