One Day Kid
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One Day Kid

 John Robbins
 John Robbins
One Day Kid
by John Robbins  FollowFollow
Well I'm a barroom poet and professional drinker my works been published in Romingos Porch, Horror Sleaze Trash,Spill The Words Press,Blue more ,Inbetween Hangovers , Your One Phone Call, Piker Press, Duanes Poe Tree, Pyre Publishing , The Outlaw Poetry Network you can also read me at Hello Poetry and just about every other website and probably a few bathroom walls in between. I'm always up for a good time and a stiff drink . Cheers and stay crazy . Gonz
More work by John Robbins:
Issue 108 · poetry
free verse ·  
One Day Kid
I sat there as all the others had rushed him.
He looked miserable.
A writer on display is a weird fucking sight indeed.

They took pictures tried to ask long-winded questions.
He was worn out from it all.

He wasn’t what I expected.
The man on the page was far too real.

He had seen many a year and he looked more bound for the retirement home than the highway.

I waited for the line to die out.
I didn’t know what to say and had nothing but a handed down copy of a book of short stories he had written long ago.

They had taken what they wanted and he just sat there an awkward man in an even more awkward scene.

As I approached the look on his face was easy to read.

"Fuck just kill me and get it over with."

I imagined him saying to himself.

"Hi kid. "

He said as I stood before him.

I froze for a second.

"Got something for me to sign or want to buy a book."

"Or maybe just stare at me, either way can we hurry it up cause I'm old and tired and really want a drink kid.”

"Sorry Mr. Roberts I just want to say you’re the greatest writer I ever read can you sign this."

He looked at my battered old book, which at best looked older than my hero.

"Jesus Christ kid! This thing come with a time machine as well fuck I haven't seen this in a long time."

He looked down at the battered book laughing.

He looked at his author’s picture.
"Fuck wish this was me now, best years of my goddamned life."

He signed the book never asking me my name.
He wasn’t a prick he just was tired of the bullshit and was ready to go.

And quickly after that he was gone.
I shared the room with greatness for a second.

Inside my book it read.
Thanks for the flashback kid.

There was a fowl smell I believe my hero had left a fart behind.

It smelled like he had shit his pants.

I didn’t believe in heroes anymore.

Also by John Robbins



  1 month ago
Fame and writers are weird beasts indeed.
  1 month ago
As a writer myself, I am still in awe of my literary heroes. I could imagine this happening, although I wish my writing heroes were what I found in the books. John, you nailed it once again with this work, bringing us back into reality, showing that our heroes are people too, flaws and all.


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