Self Discovery

This morning, at the mailbox, I opened a small package that contained a literary journal.  On the cover I noted my name.  And inside I found a poem that I had submitted to the magazine months ago and which, I suppose, had been accepted for publication.  Too bad I don't remember sending it to the editor or receiving the word about its inclusion.  It was like discovering myself.

I'm getting too old, too fast.  The only saving grace is, the poem, a sonnet, wasn't half bad.  If I had not written it, I would say it was a great sonnet, a fantastic sonnet.  It's average.  And it's in print.

I did revisit my card file (my ancient record-keeping system of 3 X 5 index cards in a handy-dandy rusted metal box) to check on this poem . . . but, alas, I didn't remember to write down the title of this one, nor where or when I had submitted it.  But then, I have hundreds of poems out there, and I'm bound to miss a few . . . it's just percentages and the rate of attrition.  I might have even learned about this in physics or statistics, but I don't remember this lesson.

Now, my next concern is . . . where do I put this journal in case I want to do a tear sheet on it later or include this poem in some collection at a future date?  How can I assure myself that I won't misplace it?

I'll just put this journal in the great pile with my other published material.  I'll do this as soon as I find the pile.