There's Tony walking along
passing by the would-be treats,
There is not a nose on his face
to punch or praise
nothing to notice
except for the air of extreme blandness
settling on the observer,
the rare soul who'd stop to stare
at fame disguised as dreary.
He picks up speed.
The cop on the corner wonders
what is it he did, after his last trade,
to earn such near invisibility?