Don’t meet your hero at the shops,
Because they probably moan to the staff
When the screen says “seek assistance”.
I don’t want to meet Steven Gerrard—
Probably not at all. Only a silent totem
Can bear the weight of a child-like worship.
But definitely not in a restaurant,
In case he exhales dramatically,
When the steak comes out well done;
Though he doesn’t send it back.
And never mind the girl you could have known,
The one from your Psychology class,
Who pops up in an absent mind.
She probably speaks slowly and loudly
In English to the Greek waiters.
And the friend you’d see every weekend,
Before they moved away: rolling out
Of their driveway in front of rolling tears,
Doesn’t say ‘perfect, thanks’,
When the barber holds up the mirror.
And sometimes I’ll start a story,
When you start to slip into chatter,
That blooms around us into a warm hum.
And I lose you for a minute,
While I speak into the narrowing space.
And yet I stay grateful that I met you.
Uncultured Review 