The man stands and mumbles his words, bound by twists and tongues,
The air sits trapped, his voice weighed down,
Weighed down to his blushing lungs.
The call he makes falls silent,
No phone is there to be rang.
With a domino flick,
His sentence comes falling down.
It happens only when the man is put in centre and spot,
Head lamped with a rabbit surprise,
He searches the crowd for understanding,
Understanding rescuing eyes.
Alas, these eyes are only fair weather,
Always closed under stormy skies.
He leaves the stage gasping,
Mouth like a talking fish,
Circles his bowl like a clock face, razor thoughts seal his lips.
If he could have the moment again he wouldn’t forget his lines,
He would fire back with fury, the words would ribbon their minds,
And sorry, he would all but be.
Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.