When the workmen had finally finished cutting the heavy black rubber tubing from the machine, they retired to a bench for a smoke.
One sat apart from the others with a faraway smile on his face. He was shirtless and his upper body was bronzed and shiny.
When he leaned into the circle of his hand, a match flickering there, I saw at once that this was James Dean.
He sat alone then, smiling, his cigarette like a tiny white exhaust pipe, dangling from his lower lip.
I wanted to speak to him, but I was too shy. He was already famous. I wanted to warn him of the flickering flame, the drifts of smoke.
But it was not possible I knew. I was too shy to attempt more than a small nod and a half smile, which he did acknowledge with a tip of his finger.
Besides, he would have thought I was referring to his Lucky Strike. Besides he was writing his own story, and it was his alone, not mine.
Here's another lovely poem I found in the latest edition of Poetry NZ.