The emoting in the serious burns ward
is too hammy for the casting director.
Someone moans like a walrus
and he pinches the bridge of his red nose.
'Jesus.' He's after something
a little more muted - 'just a smidge,'
he adds, with an arched brow that suggests
extreme understatement. We try soap bubbles
but he scowls at their tweeness;
the white dot zap of a TV
makes him exclaim 'Bastard!' and slap me
across the chops with a rolled up copy
of The Tribune; obituaries ink themselves
in reverse across his sweaty palm.
Finally, watching a bath drain,
he gives up. 'It's useless,' he sags,
and, just like that,
he finds his finale.