For T.O
A part-time front office guy at the gym
Used to work in the industry. A bit
Player—TV and film—he made a thin
Living—enough to pay the rent, raise kids.
When young, he trained, developed the buffed bod
That brought him west from Brooklyn seeking fame.
One time, he told me, they went on a job
Up north—cast and crew, two planes—for some lame
TV film. When done, anxious to get home
The cast raced to the nicer plane—a treat.
All spots occupied, laughing, they faked groans,
And tardy Roy was banished—no more seats!
Disconsolate, he mingled with the freight
Piled on the other plane. Somewhat abashed,
He mused a bit upon the nasty fate
That kept him from his friends. But their plane crashed.
Talk about your nasty fate! For twenty
Seared years Roy has not ventured on a plane.
Borrowed years, invested in life’s plenty,
Returned merry smiles and wide eyes. Unfeigned,
His zest for life is easily explained.
(1/10/07)