George Plympton

I saw George Plympton
on 5th Avenue
and he was tall and old
and quite unlike the self of himself
I had wanted him to have.

The thing you noticed most
was all the smiling
and how fake it was
how tiring it must have been
to be him, stood in front of a stall
at the outdoor bookfair
with no one else vaguely famous in sight.

The strange thing
is how I found myself resenting him
when, after all, his collected essays
have sat above the toilet in our bathroom
for a long time now.
A place of much respect.

I think we can lose interest
in the dream of people
when their presence
proves themselves only real.


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