Mean Spirits

Here's to you a published poet!
I toast your fortune with my glass.

It's whisky, not champagne - and
the sliver in my heart
is an iceberg.
It only melts in the guilty heat
of schadenfreude, when I hear
of your submission spiked
by an editor-
doubtless one of dubious taste.

But you know this,
a writer to your jealous bones-
your inside-out skin
burned by every terse rejection.

No wonder you drink.