Accountant By Day

He waits in rooms that smell like stale applause,

headshots grinning bigger than he feels inside,

a face that’s never quite “what we’re looking for,”

a résumé padded with fluff and nonsense.

He has the heat but these directors are so cold.

Their eyes move past him like he’s already gone.

He tells himself he’s perfect for the role.

He counts his worth in callbacks that don’t call.

Numbers by day, dreams divided in columns.

An accountant balancing strangers’ futures,

while his own life slips deeper into debt.

Competition floods in, brighter, bolder, younger.

Each “no” a statement he can’t balance.

Bills stack like scripts he’ll never get to read,

and hunger starts rewriting all his lines.

He tells himself he’s perfect for the role.

So when a camera comes with an offer,

no monologues, no critics, just a check,

he tells himself it’s just a smaller screen,

still a performance, only… different pretending,

and somewhere between shame and survival,

he’s fully exposed with and without clothes.

He tells himself he’s perfect for the role.

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My first attempt at a Bop poem. This is my response to a prompt on the Diamond Quill website to write about a struggling actor.