She was famous and in the movies,
on television, the radio, even in
the newspapers from time to time
and she was mine, all mine.
Okay, not like the clothes my
mother bought for me were all mine,
or the gold watch my dad presented me
on the day of my graduation
but the way the thoughts in my
head were all mine, the fantasies,
even the stuff I scribbled down
on paper when no one was looking.
She was mine when I imagined the two of us
dining in some fancy restaurant or together
at the club and prancing around on the dance floor
or driving through the streets of the city
trying to lose the paparazzi.
Yes she was mine, all mine,
though not the mine like the pillow
I clutched to my chest each night
while pretending it was her
but mine like the pretense,
whatever I could conjure out of nothing,
all mine, even when she grew older,
popularity faded, and she was
long forgotten by all, including me,
and that invention was still mine, all mine,
and eager to be put to work again.