A new poem entitled Fame appears in Paper Street, a journal from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania…
Fame
I almost believe,
walking towards the exclusive
Squaw Creek Resort, that I am somebody
else. Eager hands assign guest badges
at this 49ers’ Celebrity Ski Classic,
everyone roaming round the lobby like paparazzi,
looking to see who might be someone.
Rich middle-aged men eye with envy
the effortless, graceful muscle of football players
gliding by with leather bags—who return the worship
with youthful fervor, happy to be fawned over.
And the cheerleaders, short red skirts & tight white sweaters
framing bodies they are too young to know the cost of.
I am here as friend of the aging rock star
playing the benefit concert—my men’s group his posse
for the weekend, and no-one can figure us out.
Are we members of the band, famous record producers?
Too familiar with the star to be roadies, huddled intently
over dinner talking of love, its loss, what it means
to grow older, to savor the life you have. We wander
the elegant resort, glide down perfect ski slopes
in brilliant sun, hang with the band before they play—
something about how normal we are creating an air
of mystery. After the concert,
another aging rock star who has donated
his flaming-red custom-made guitar for the benefit auction
calls up, says he’s down in the bar with some cheerleaders
& whisky: but it’s too much. We brood instead
over what it means to find yourself this late in life—
how if you could touch its worth,
you’d never sell your soul to anyone,
for anything, ever, again.