No monument to me stands boldly in the city square,
No anniversary marked so all are yearly made aware.
No mass of varied pictures looking grave and statuesque,
No profiles of me studiously writing at my desk.

No documentaries on TV, or biopic on the web,
No place in school curriculums as an English Lit. celeb.
No book being signed at festivals or well known high street shops,
No excitement as a box set I'm the star of finally drops.

No established or new business loudly brandishes my name,
No cup or honours board engraved; sports merit I can claim
No civic building or new-named street refers to my achievement,
No stately monolith for me or future nation felt bereavement.

So who am I among the famed and notable of our age,
When I'm but a mere spectator and not an actor on its stage?
Does this mean I am less a part of life's rich cultured story,
Not endowed with, or awardee, of such lauded fame or glory?

I’m simply me, the person with this pen and pad of paper,
Who rather than a notable is instead a fame escaper.
Happy leaving all that stuff to others better suited,
To those who love the chance to be red carpet suit and booted.

No lesser piece of jigsaw than all with life I daily share,
I would never seek out worldly fame, publicity or its glare.
I'm a happy and contented, regular denizen of the Earth,
Unknown for not being famous and for that, of no less worth.