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My editor has quite specific (terrific) suggestions for all that I write.
In English or Spanish, my errors soon vanish as she sets the wording aright.
She slashes my misplaced em-dashes and gnashes her teeth at my commas awry.
Non sequitur phrasing she hunts, pen a-blazing, ignoring my pitiful ‘why?’

One bad semi-colon, an hour is stolen; a tense change could take the whole day.
A line that is boring? A week’s worth of warring to spice up what I want to say.
Her feedback I read back and have to remember: it’s not like I’m under duress.
Though often annoying, it’s why I’m enjoying a modest amount of success.

My editor’s edits get far fewer credits than what should be justly bestowed.
This verse is her back pay, a pittance I daresay, and much less than what she is owed.
My editor tries to be kind and remind me of poetry’s outs and its ins.
And when I resist her, she’s still my big sister, so you can imagine who wins.