This
was supposed to be something.
This
was supposed to be worthwhile;
supposed
to be something that
summed
up and crowned his works,
glorified
everything he’d done so far.
He
wanted to be proud of his work;
wanted
to be approached by readers,
wanted
to see their heads still spinning,
their
hands eager to shake his hand.
He
wanted to hear them sing his praise.
No
one even seemed to notice. No one
approached
him for an autograph or
formed
a line for a photo op. No one
betrayed
the slightest interest. No one.
He
gave up caring. He put down his pen.