I remember the time we crowded
into the Oberoi lounge
to meet Imran Khan –
a buoyant bevy of schoolgirls
with satchels and prefect badges,
still downy with chalk-dust.
We called him on the lobby phone
and were dazed when he answered
until we discovered it was just a floor manager
in cahoots with a shop owner
who told us he’d driven away minutes ago
in a green Mercedes, and was unlikely anyway
to be interested in sweaty Class Eight kids
with the smell of lunch on their breaths.
When we went home that night
something had already slunk into our hearts,
something clammy
like shame at our nerve,
our bumbling forgetfulness of the old lesson
that many are called,
but few chosen.