The Death of an Actor - a poem
THE DEATH OF AN ACTOR
I need a little bit more
How the masses tremble
If only they knew
How long would I laugh?
There he crumpled
Congested and cramped
Alone, bundled in the wet gutter
Blocking the drains
Flooding the streets
His skin pale and full of rainwater
Up to his bleary blue eyes
No one knew he was an actor -
No one dared to notice
The man at the corner table at the corner cafe
Every day at half past noon
Ordering the same sandwich and coffee
From the same waitress in the same dress.
He wore the same faded trenchcoat
And smoked the same brand of cigarettes
And thousands of the same people passed by
Every day
And never knew who he was
Or what he cared about
Or where he was going
Or where he came from
Until one day
The same waitress in the same dress
On her way to the same restaurant
At five thirty a.m.
Saw this crumpled man like a soggy paper bag
Wrinkled and soaked through in the gutter.
She shouted and called the police
And cringed when she saw his face
But couldn’t discern why he seemed
So vaguely familiar.
No one knew until they read the headlines,
All the same people who ignored him every day,
That he had been an actor.