The cat was in the cradle
and I was at the door.
There was no mistaking
that very famous face.
He could see I was a fan.
I explained why I was there,
to pick up an owed check.
Not here, he said. 
This townhouse is all mine.
Maybe the basement, I countered.
Don’t you think I would know if 
an ad agency was in my basement?
I apologized to the famous novelist,
thinking it was my own granfalloon.
But still he offered to right my wrong,
looking up the correct address
in a nearby phone book. 
I thanked him for everything
and so it went.