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Fan

I make sure I’m the last one in the queue,
So we can chat after the signing’s through,
You don’t know how I’ve waited for this day.

Not many people here (my cheeks are burning!)
But you’re a poet for the more discerning,
I guess the philistines have stayed away.

I’ve heard your voice so often in my mind,
Dark and fruity, cultured and refined,
I’ve dreamt about our verbal interplay.

No one knows your work as well as me,
Just four more up ahead – 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 I’ve driven ninety miles today.

You really weren’t supposed to be like this,
Bloated, blotchy, balding and half-pissed,
But sign the new collection anyway.

Annie Fisher


If you have any comments on this poem,  Annie Fisher would be pleased to hear from you.

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