His heart beat to poems recited
By the act before him, or so it seemed
And in his head were whispers, screamed
Like a well projected voice
His mind, quivered like so many programs
Turning in the hands of a thousand punters
Before lights down. Their eyes like predatory hunters
Awaiting their evening meal.
Fleeting doubt that the wood grain matched
The fingertips of someone other
But the well worn stage of many another
Is now any young man’s game.