He’s first on the scene, sweeping the sky with his hands,

claiming its moods and movements as his own.

In the wings, we see the footman waiting to come on.

He shuffles his feet, wondering if anyone will notice him arrive. 
I want to tell you – look for anonymous, not eponymous.

Find someone not famous

and he’ll touch you like he’s never been touched

closing his eyes

and while the hero soliloquises about the moon and stars,

he’ll trace their light on your cheek, your neck, your breast.

He might not compare you to summer

but he’ll bring you peaches warm from the tree.

And while, in the heat of the moment,

he’ll weep for his dead-centre friend,

once the story is told

he’ll walk with you into the wings

and out into every day.