In our college production 

I landed the plum part. 

Estragon, a dimwitted stooge 

For the cerebral Vladimir 

In Samuel Becket's fine play, 

A role which suited me just fine. 

I'm not sure why. 

Typecasting was alive and well 

In 1979.

 

I enjoyed the knockabout humour, 

The bandinage, the quickfire exchange 

Of insults, intensifying 

Until we wounded each other.

Mercilessly. A marriage of sorts. 

Vladimir was not, of course, 

As clever as he thought. 

 

It's funny how Life reflects Art. 

At the time I missed the point,

When life was young and sweet .

I was a willing victim of the chancers

Whom I chanced to meet, with their myriad

Of promises they made and never kept.

I was immutable, though, and undeterred

Why should my gratification be deferred?

 

How long have I been waiting 

For my time to begin? 

Life's game of poker has not yet

Dealt me in. 

 

"What shall I say of this day?" 

That I am still here waiting, 

Under this old, decrepit tree. 

Perhaps, then, tomorrow, 

Mister Godot

Will finally come.

For me.