I love this, but I'd take a different tack:
I
Among twenty unfinished manuscripts,
The only moving thing
Was the TV remote.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a auction
In which there are multiple bidders.
III
The reject letter whirled in the autumn winds
like a child screaming at a pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and an agent
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of notes
Or the beauty of praise,
An author weeping
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass
because I threw my broken laptop
through it.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Where is my royalty check?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But the copyeditor knows
The Chicago Manual of Style.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It crapped on the edge
Of one of many useless social media circles.
X
At the sight of assistants
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out, Pay them!
to end the strike.
XI
The publisher rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
that this ride
he couldn't expense.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
Still no response to my query.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The writer sat
In the cedar-limbs,
waiting for inspiration.
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I love this, but I'd take a different tack:
I
Among twenty unfinished manuscripts,
The only moving thing
Was the TV remote.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a auction
In which there are multiple bidders.
III
The reject letter whirled in the autumn winds
like a child screaming at a pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and an agent
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of notes
Or the beauty of praise,
An author weeping
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass
because I threw my broken laptop
through it.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Where is my royalty check?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But the copyeditor knows
The Chicago Manual of Style.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It crapped on the edge
Of one of many useless social media circles.
X
At the sight of assistants
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out, Pay them!
to end the strike.
XI
The publisher rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
that this ride
he couldn't expense.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
Still no response to my query.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The writer sat
In the cedar-limbs,
waiting for inspiration.