Between jobs, Jim
drifts through signings,
conventions. His agent calls.
There’s a thing with werewolves,
a guest slot on “The Walking Dead”,
but no sign of the fifty million
he needs to film Macbeth.
Playing the old Bill
has kept him in threads, in fags,
but Macbeth will take serious wedge.
It’s enough to grey his hair,
drag his cheekbones down.
He smiles and signs. His agent calls
about a thing with ghouls.
Tim says: I’m writing a batch of new poems at the moment, but am not posting them here yet as I’m looking to submit them to magazines – and my published books have been mined for Tuesday Poems to the brink of severe resource depletion! So, when looking for something unpublished to post, I was glad to stumble over Jim, the actor always waiting for a callback, for a call. For the record, the reference to “The Walking Dead” was once a reference to “Smallville”. Jim’s been waiting for a while.
The Tuesday Poem: This week’s Tuesday Poem is New Margins by Joan Fleming, selected by Helen Rickerby.