Bill is Always Nighy
written by: David Dumouriez
Now as a slightly older gent, he wakes –
slave to his urethra – does what it takes,
shuffles louchely to Aretha, attends
next to the choice on which his day depends:
the charcoal or the navy? Shirt and tie,
they pick themselves. He’s done then. He’s Bill Nighy …
… Bill Nighy in search of breakfast. Plate of eggs,
the usual place. Tea finished to the dregs.
Then up and off and leaving Pimlico;
his strides are long, mood maybe indigo.
He’ll take the Tube, perhaps, and see the Tate.
Or else meet Anna for a lunchtime date.
And people spot him all the time! That guy?
The fella who was in that thing? Bill Nighy?
‘Yes, that was me.’ Oh, how people love him.
His charm and kindness rise beyond the brim.
He’ll pose for pictures, too. The price that’s paid.
Odd salute; delighted fan. Perfect trade.
He works sometimes as well, you know! Yet Bill
remains a loafer at his core. His skill
is his invention of himself; the wit
to judge which paths to keep, and which to quit.
The lack of him, for sure, would be profound.
But Bill? Come on! He’s never not around.
- Bill is Always Nighy - August 16, 2025
- They Call Him REG - May 13, 2025
- Poem On His Birthday - August 4, 2023
