A walk-on cast of thousands
swell the crowd scenes of my life,
hurrying to their other roles
as soon as my back is turned.
No green room or dusty wings
to rest between their takes,
removing make-up, yawning,
phoning agents, gossiping,
passing the time until my final act,
when they will purse their lips
and weep, then pack away their costumes
shrugging on cold air at the
stage door like an overcoat.
If you've any comments about this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased to hear from you.