The Sacrifices We Make

Yellowed newspapers sit on a shelf
Just below the shelf holding fresh ones;
Both go untouched
By me and all others.

What do I care about
What some journalist
Convinced his editor was important?
Or was it the editor
Who convinced the journalist?

I confess I'm too harsh;
Both are trying to make it in this world,
Trying like the rest of us,
Trying to do something they love
And get paid for it.

But modern journalism begs the question,
How many worthless stories are worth
The opportunity to write one good one?
How much space between good can we handle?
Is one good one a year sufficient
To prevent a soul's deflation?
Perhaps one every six months is enough
To keep the mind from rotting?
And what if it's not?
What happens to our newsmen then?