On Trial
John Sargent
Lights stream down.
I blink as sweat begins to mar my image
Of urbane confidence.
Before me, a script, clutched tight
In trembling hands.
Across my mind streak images,
Images of how to be.
Walk like so, speak like this,
A constant hum of twenty things
Inside my head.
Afterwards.
Sick uncertainty.
Mired in ignorance
I waver between confidence and dread.
The part is mine, or not.
Endless reviews of how I did,
An eternal adjudication.
Think on the joy of winning a role.
Think on something else.
Eyes scan the list
One name only is needed
But is lacking.
My heart gives. Almost does it break.
The burden of failure shouldered again.
But I am Prometheus,
My wound will heal with time;
I always return.
| 
