by Alfred Nicol

Remember when James Dean was all the rage?
The silent type, the awkward dinner guest.
Young people filled the cinemas, in thrall
to the rebel looking sideways at them all,
who spent his whole life going through a stage,
unable to get something off his chest.

But better him than this guy on the screen,
whose little eyes get lost behind his cheeks,
a would-be actor looking out of place,
still practicing to make an angry face,
who’s only memorized a single scene
and mouths the same lines every time he speaks.