Sean Connery

The man in the tall, black suit

Stood out against the rest

He sat in silence in the torrid, dank and desperate pub

With a cocktail glass caressed between his black suede glove

His tired lips, drinking so slow you’d have thought he wasn’t drinking at all

A black-suited man in a place rundown he must have thought it was a ball

Men came and went in his opposite seats 

Not a syllable offered nigh on even a glimpse

Of the man he knew he was and will be 

His silence was enough to give them the third degree

This black-suited man in a place so bland must have thought he was Sean Connery.

C.D.B.Bowerman