It is a fact:
Frank can't act.
He's bad generally:
Arson; stealing; shoving kids into lockers;
But his acting's worse.
The curse of the macho man.
Rehearsal, and he'll purposefully lose his script.
Last verse of a song and he'll lip-sync;
Get ripped a new one by the drama teacher
For mouthing along to the words.
Acting is not Frank's thing.
He can sing
(Not very well)
But he'll sing as Frank.
He can dance
(Not very well)
But, when he tries to act,
They think the audition's some kind of prank of his.
(He auditioned once,
Aged ten,
For one of Robin Hood's merry men in a year six school play:
The role of Will Scarlett.
His resolute 'never again'
Has stayed with him since.)
So he doesn't act.
From the moment he kneels,
He doesn't act.
In the moment he pauses,
It's not an act.
As he holds in his lap
The boy who's dying
He stops feeling shy.
He stops acting.
He starts being the part
For Stephen.
And the part he's being is himself.
The part of himself
He can't be forever.
The part of Frank
He wants to give to Stephen
Frank the lost,
Frank the hopeless,
The never-good-at-anything-but-fighting Frank.
The unactor.
The cider-in-school, beer-behind-bike-sheds Frank.
The boy who has Stephen
In his lap
Dying,
Drinks in the sight of him.
Slides his helmet off with rough hands.
Dies with him.
The words of the greatest lovers on his lips.
A confession on his face.
Frank can't act.
And, when he kisses Stephen,
He isn't acting.
When he kisses Stephen,
It isn't acting.
When he kisses Stephen,
They aren't acting.
.
And there is a cough.
And the play finishes.
And they go home.
.
And
It is a fact.
Frank still can't act.