Hugo Williams
The Actor
Sent by his agency to this bright
Box, all his lines straight, knew
Where to die, but was not quite
Sure who he was or where he’d got
His hat and whether those breathless
Eyes were just his own, each pupil a dot
Of sanity or irony. In the cupboard
His uniforms were headless ghosts:
First, second, third, all safely stored,
Progressing through the acts alone.
Each of them a little more ripped,
(Signifying war,) than the one before.
No. 1 being left almost undipped
In blood. Tools of his trade, they stand
Representing the passage of time: past
Present and future, ranged close at hand
Upon their hooks. While not far away
Our soldier sits uncertain which one
To wear and whether it’s all in play.
Page(s) 42-43
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