I make sure Iím the last one in the queue,
So we can chat after the signingís through,
You donít know how Iíve waited for this day.
Not many people here (my cheeks are burning!)
But youíre a poet for the more discerning,
I guess the philistines have stayed away.
Iíve heard your voice so often in my mind,
Dark and fruity, cultured and refined,
Iíve dreamt about our verbal interplay.
No one knows your work as well as me,
Just four more up ahead Ė now only three,
I keep rehearsing smart things I will say.
But now I see your hair is dyed, has streaks,
Your voice is giggly, girly, and it squeaks,
To think Iíve driven ninety miles today.
You really werenít supposed to be like this,
Bloated, blotchy, balding and half-pissed,
But sign the new collection anyway.
If you have any comments on this poem, Annie Fisher
would be pleased to hear from you.