Over 200 eyes are set.
Some of the crowd are waiting.
A few for the speech they have come to hear.
Murmering burbles.
A woman repeatedly brushes invisible lint from her knee.
Accoutrements heavily marked.
It took time to come here today.
Hairspray spiked do flops on a face made up with artistic care.
Her bald companion mimics serene inattention.
His glassy eyes set as though utterly absorbed in the unfolding scene.
Centre stage is prepped.
The mike's are revved.
Ears are pricked for the first word.
The speakers thoughts pick up pace
And an adrenaline alertness takes place.
There is a speech - finely crafted over days.
The result of books poured through a pupil and his pen to a page.
He knows what he has to say.
He's practiced and practiced taking centre stage.
Envisioned his impact.
Measured his tone.
Performed for friends or alone.
It just seems to flow.
Excited energy has its own edge.
And an imagined moment becomes a moment.
And a distant memory.
Puppet and puppet master.
Without him they'd be no show.
Through him it flows.
He forgets to read from the page.
Adds flourishes and arguments he'd not written in the quiet lamplit library.

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