The Fallen Eagle

Back when, Gary was told,
‘don’t be like the rest of ‘em,
improvise, be new’
he hopped on the plane to L.A.
Oh, wait! Mistake not yet made.
     
Yeah, cos he had his own beat,
no need to save Synder’s cat.
Everyone’s grabbed it from the tree
and found merely a cuddly toy.

‘Improvise, be new’,
mantra mandated to
passersby on Venice beach,
waving his script, hoping
for a drunken promise
or a sun burnt brain.

‘Read these pages!
The Fallen Eagle’.

Down the side of a shop
that sold straw hats and feathered
masks, lay Eagle in his
black lycra suit covered in
feathers. Nearby on a table,
lay the script, ready to be
made a fable. Eagle face-down
on the floor acting, sadness.

A black Mercedes pulled up
A doctor? A lawyer? A Vet?
A producer?
‘Gary, what are you doing?’

Those words repeated
to himself, in the present day
as he serves drinks
in a dank smoggy bar
acting, happiness.