A poem is a poor tool for revenge (Friday's Sunday's Poem)

I haven't posted a Friday's Sunday's Poem in a while, so to make up for that, I'm going to post one I wrote myself. It doesn't rhyme. It was going to rhyme, because I feel very strongly about the fact that poems are supposed to rhyme, but after working on it for upwards of 2 hours, I couldn't come up with a rhyming version that I liked as much as the nonrhymed version, so here's my nonrhyming, own-rule-breaking poem:

A Poem Written Because
The New Yorker Rejected My Poem.

by me.

Every poet suffers for his art.
This poem I’m writing while watching reruns of The King Of Queens,
Reclining in the bedroom in the old chair --
The one we bought to help her through the
Pregnancy with the twins –
My bowl of Cheetos perched on one arm.

I’m writing this way out of spite:
The New Yorker rejected my last poem.
And I thought: “I’ll show them.”
I thought: “I’ll show them what bad poetry is.”
I’m not sure who the “them” is in that thought.

Even as I’m writing it, though, it’s hard to focus.
A poem is a poor tool for revenge.
And this chair is very comfortable.
And Doug is in trouble with Carrie.
And I’ve hardly touched the Cheetos.

(They’re baked Cheetos, to protect my heart.)

If poets must suffer for their art, though,
Then poetry editors ought to suffer for not recognizing art.
And others should suffer maybe a little, too:
Wives who interrupt the poetic process to talk to husbands.
The company who thought the commercial with the annoying lady was a good idea.
The person who invented snack foods which leave powdery orange resin on my fingers.
They are all part of the them
Who will be shown.

But this chair is really comfortable…
… And Doug has not yet learned his lesson.
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About the Poem: Remember how I submitted a poem to The New Yorker and it got rejected, so I submitted a poem about that experience? This is that poem.