I recall exactly when and where I parted company with a superstar.
We were inseparable twins up to then.
Together we laid out a path to the stars.
Groupies, paparazzi, red carpets, all awaited us.
But every audition ended with thank-you-next-please.
I was growing impatient with my superstar partner
for he spoke only in an exuberant future tense
while more and more I spoke in a kind of present imperfect.
Then on a Monday morning on May twelfth at 8 a.m.,
we both flopped on a bus stop bench after yet another week
of gladly signing autographs to long lines of nobody.
It was then, it was there
my superstar buddy slowly turned translucent,
and I could see through him ever more clearly
until all I saw were ordinary people taking the bus to work.
