dear elton john.

Eight years old, my one shining day of the year.
But you weren’t there.
All I wanted was to hear you sing
“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” or
perhaps a rousing round of “Benny and the Jets.”
You could cut my cake and sneak a piece
before you left in your gleaming limousine.
I wouldn’t mind.
I waited for you by the front door for hours,
expecting you to roll up with an entourage.
Mr. Fantastic, you didn’t have the decency to
call or write. Perhaps you’re not as Fantastic as
I thought.