The Interview

          
The interviewer crossed his metaphorical legs
and asked me metaphorical questions.
I answered as pithily as I could, shackled as I was
to the sleeping dog. It went fairly well,
I thought, until the question about my quatrain.
I asked in return about his sister and things
got prickly. In the end the interviewer threw up his
metaphorical arms and declared me full
of something unpleasant. I asked when I could
expect to see this is print, our back and
forth. He said when Hell starts serving mint
juleps. I thought that a fine turn of phrase and
told him so. He sat back down and grinned
a metaphorical grin. Now, let’s get started, he said.