Nigel Prentice
The Stuntman
Let him writhe a while in flame while you read this,
Or slide into the lamp-post in a spray of glass;
Drop a hundred feet through a sky without breath,
Counting the floors; leap from the gasping train,
Or just pitch down the stairs, always all the way down.
An artist of the repeat fixed bout with death,
Of the pastimes of Dante’s Hell, he steps in deftly
At the Ooh of awe, missed heartbeat. Expert
On the half-life, living and dying and getting up
In others’ shoes, in the lulls between words,
He outacts us; but does not have a face
Or clothes of his own, has nothing to say
Except the final scream (which is lent him),
And because of his seamless fit, we know his place,
He will never be here when we want him.
Page(s) 63
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