Michael Caine, Again (Poetry)

I was staying, last night, in your flat, Mike,
gazing up at the wallpapered blue
of a ceiling whorled with bold designs
while the walls were a bare cool cream.

You were young - back to Alfie-ish - Michael,
and it seemed very natural, relaxed,
as we talked about nothing particular,
the script in my head pretty naff.

Then a scene with a long wooden ladder
and we nervously wobbled and climbed
from one lofty room to another
through trapdoors too narrow. You swore

like a trooper, the fusebox a relic,
a museum-piece someone had found,
the ladder grew longer and longer,
but you smiled so I didn't look down.

You were working, I think, as a dentist -
hardly a typical role,
the view from the window was pleasant -
city grass and some trees in a square.

It was hardly a Hollywood movie,
this short cut imagined last night
when, unconscious, I cast you as co-star
once again - it's a habit, dear Mike.