Unsteady now on those once-famous feet.

Damn those rugs on top of worn carpet en

route chest of drawers that connected with

forehead when he tripped and fell.

Retired dancer, elderly neighbour,

an oak taken down, not by a gale

but timing and a nondescript rug.

Dancing Goliath once held ballerinas

aloft: Paris, London, cities of Australia.

Adelaide boy-become-butterfly became

devil/god of the stage with a world

in his strong hands. Giant in silver paint

upon whom dancing swans depended.

Near naked girls were entirely safe,

audiences entirely in awe.
Today, in a small Melbourne upstairs flat,

Lew has almost come to rest, cautiously

leaving sofa to make his way to kitchen

or toilet. Tea and toast. Avoid sweets, old boy.

That outdoor flight of stairs must be negotiated

despite having lost ability to fly and two toes.

Diabetes. Leading man now leads with ‘good’ leg.

Bit of shopping, appointments with doctors

then back to photo albums, knickknacks,

pot plants, ageing costumes in the closet.

What’s become of Lewis? This, of course,

but what of it? The sun, our favourite star,

will burn out. Every star dims eventually

but not many shine so brightly

before their fuel is spent.