Poem: burning bugs and faceless storytellers

I thought I recognised a face during my walk, the face of an author 

I paused in my movement, still and uncertain 

a single moment’s hesitation, a single double-take 

before I resumed my path 

nothing worth waiting for is ever simple, goddammit 

I kept walking – wondered if it truly was the face I believed it to be 

I swerved to the side of the pavement 

like a badly-parked, broken-down car 

       cargo pants dragging under converse 

(note to self: I need to cuff them better) 

I swiped on my phone, glanced behind me 

but they’re hidden by a tree 

google the author, their spouse, if they’re in nz 

But find nothing 

maybe I’m tired, maybe I’m not 

but it had me thinking 

celebrities are recognised on sight 

by their posture, face, smile, voice 

no matter how much they conceal, they are found 

pinned under a spotlight that burns  

like the sun through a magnifying glass 

and these stars are no more than bugs 

interrogated by a cruel, curious child 

who should know better by now, 

surrounded by burned carcasses 

but writers? 

they are easier to misplace 

for they are recognised not by their faces 

but by their words 

stories 

thoughts 

and the worlds they spin from nothing 

who knows if I saw who I think I did 

I think he would rather I recognise his stories instead – if it was ever him at all 

I’m in cafe open past midnight 

there is a bluetooth keyboard in my pocket, scattered with stickers 

a story in my head, a book in my hand 

I’m typing at a bar stool, framed by an open window 

The club across the road is blasting music 

that has late-night wanderers tapping their feet 

I write and I write and I wonder 

if being known for your face instead of your work 

is as bittersweet as I imagine