Michael Johns: We Hardly Knew Ye
I read the news today, oh boy
my first thought was: is
Really? You want to get rid of him? The hot
one with the Australian accent?
I have some fantasies that involve conversations
with famous people, in which I act casual and cool,
and so with Michael, I say, hey, I liked your
interpretation of “Bohemian Rhapsody,”
like didn’t mean to make you cry
very, um, heterosexual.
But, don’t be silly, I know I’ll never
get to see him or Jake Gyllenhaal,
or French kiss Willem Dafoe (the 80s one),
or even touch the thumb of Kevin Bacon,
thinking the whole time how many degrees
separate us, like the mere inches between
Dolly Parton and Michael Johns the week
he sang I like your look, I love your smile
and I was thinking, get over here! Me too!
But I’ll never be that close to him, close
enough to say, Hey Michael, will you
call my name as you walk on by?
He’d reply, sure. No problem.
But outside my dream life he sings,
dream on, dream until your dreams come true…
The closest I’ll get to him, or anyone, might be
the distance between the stage and the audience,
or, translated, the distance between celebrity
and real life. Here I am on the couch and there
they are on the screen. Except for Michael.
Oh Michael. Where are you?