Why I’ll Never Be Famous

Last night I heard ten writers read
From books they had written themselves.
Corpses and divorcees, cuisines with cheese
Sashayed forth from their shelves.
Cultured and hushed, sepulchral and tart
The vocal version of elbow grease
Saw them through from finish to start
Wanting, but trying not to appear too eager to,
Please. And I, with my tonic and gin,
Applauded lustily, every and each,
Thankful it wasn’t me making the speech
That would trot my fledgling children out
To be inspected, prodded, turned about,
My tales spun out, made to spin
Knowing I would lose if they didn’t win.

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