At the literary festival

She hands you a glass, you never thank her;
you’re far too busy chatting up
the great man (for it is a man) whose name
is blazoned in red letters over the programme.
Go lick his spittle, sip your Chardonnay;
his audience yours, for a fraction of a day.

From one dark corner of one eye you glimpse them –
readers in long queues, waiting for him to sign.
Your books are stacked with his; your photo grins from
the stands; perhaps one day you’ll mount his throne.
Inside this tent, you’re clapped, the rising star.
Out there in the streets, they still don’t know who you are.