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THE DEATH OF AN ACTOR

Tuesday, April 18, 2000, 9:48 p.m.

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 on dared to notice

The man at the corner table at the corner café

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 restaraunt

At five thirty a.m.

Saw the 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.