Meeting the Famous (Poetry)

My expectations proved a flight of fancy
that swiftly drained of colour, plumage shed
as I waited to be moved — by awe transported
but found myself indifferent instead.

His words — whole lines — flew past like flocks of sparrows
a-twitter in the twilight glow of fame
but not one perched, no wing tip brushed to thrill me
no sudden flood of insight filled my brain.

In vain, I listened, hoping for an echo —
one drifting feather, brilliant, from a bird
less brown and altogether more exotic
than the ordinary voice already heard.

I queued to buy his book — a slim collection
to sit with all the others on my shelf
he signed it with a biro — I just thanked him
and kept the disappointment to myself.