Mime

Noel Coward lives in our street.

Each day at nine he promenades

wearing his best Oxfam smoking jacket,

recently died fawn slacks

and slippers

First he pats his pockets, 

Before taking out an imaginary cigarette

Clamping one hand to his forehead,

And mouthing “ooh, silly me”,

realising fags are normally filter first

he removes it, bows and re-inserts.

Once lit, he stands at the pedestrian crossing

on Weston Road, parodying an old prostitute,

soliciting winks from passers’ by,

taking great sucks at his pincer’d butt

like a reverse Breathalyzer

and blows smoke rings at traffic cops

His gait is something to behold.

Not quite John Cleese from the ministry 

more a speed skater in slow-mo

who trips over an imaginary toe

And skids to a teetering stop

I heard he feigned death,

doing a very convincing heart attack.

Trouble was, the pretend Paramedic

arrived too late

as did the invented undertaker, leaving

an eight-year-old girl feeding swans

to mark the body

face down in the lake

with two soggy rounds of bread

and a moldy bap