Upon Meeting the Hero for the First Time
Spencer Smith

The godlike visage bobs toward me,
borne upon the rapids of hair and notebooks,
his carefully sculpted features as familiar to me
as my own mirrored face.

And despite the deafening din,
in taut anticipation my senses focus
and distill to the discernment of distinct flavors
in a glass of clear water—
the extraction of his voice from the cataract of sound.
As the retinue moves past my outstretched hand,
open and empty as if begging for alms,
his eyes flash briefly across me, a roving searchlight,
and he deposits the coin of his touch in my palm.

Then he is gone—
his name like mint in the mouths of millions,
my life parenthetical at best;
he the rubric of my being,
and I the sparrow falling unnoticed.

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