03.08.02 - 6:55 p.m.

ray bradbury is old now - his square glasses
sit below a shock of white hair that was longer
than id have ever expected, his fuzzy image as
big as the moon on a screen in front of me,
over me, hanging from the ceiling. his voice bounced
off of walls like the great oz, but cheerful,
anecdotal like a jolly old movie star, not a writer.
i watched him - the real him, smaller and
clearer - for sleight of hand, for curtains and smoke, for
a glimpse of one ink-stained finger, a
rocketship hiding under the table, remnants of what made me believe in
space travel, time travel, dinosaurs.
but he was just a sweet old man delivering punchlines
and even that was enough to make me cry.