I had to wait around for something to happen
and it happened more than once, giving me a chance
to be a basketball player or a poet
because I chose to be
someone who waits, waiting for my shot, the event
converted easily into poetry.
From my drab verse, a gleam,
since I waited, merely, for an incident or dream.
Floating, floating, floating.
Producers, trainers, others, gathering
for this moment, already anticipating—
I’m trying to explain to you, Iowa, how easy
it is to be famous. Obituaries
run towards a basketball shot and poetry,
looking (hurry up!) and looking and looking.
It was always going to be like this.
And then not be like this anymore.
One tall, one short, both polite,
Fame, Obscurity, wait outside the door;
Fame says, “no, you go in.”
It’s complicated to love,
to be famished, to adore.