What poetry would be like...

...if we were paid by the word. The following is one sentence in Michael Wolff’s story in the April issue of Vanity Fair:
"Sitting in Judge Reggie Walton's court for a front-page trial, it was oddly underattended, as if the world has moved on from the Bush administration - trying to keep track of who spoke to whom (and wondering how the jury was keeping track of this), of who had his call returned when (returning calls was the leitmotif of the trial: when Robert Grenier, the cool C.I.A. operative, fails to promptly return Scooter's call, he's summarily pulled out of a meeting - Oh, dear, he recalls thinking), of the persistent telephone tag, of the game of telephone (the message morphs, degrades, gets forgotten), and of who might actually be more truthful than not (given that many of the witnesses are either P.R. people or C.I.A. agents, truth seems especially transient), I was stuck trying to figure out if anybody really knew what they were doing."
What? What editor let that fly by?