Fingers and legs twitch

Heart pounds an unsatisfactory rhythm

Sweat beads on my brow

Breathing is ragged

Speaker after speaker

Stand behind the podium

And read poem after poem

Without showing signs of distress

So why am I panicking?

Why can’t I sit still?

Or breathe in-out, in-out?

Why don’t calming thoughts comfort me?

Someone just read the beginning of a story.

He stumbled over a few words,

Relieving my tension by ten degrees.

If he can err and not collapse so can I.

Two readers left before my turn.

How do I know?

Published on the huge, huge screen,

In black and white, my name is last!

Number twenty-eight.

Is that my new lucky number?

I’d like to think so.

That was a good year for me.

Two children and one of the way

A house.

Our first.

Needing repairs, but ours

Nonetheless.

My first teaching job

In my own classroom

In a mostly abandoned elementary school

But mine! All mine.

Another reader finishes.

It’s time for me to get in line.

The director smiles encouragingly

As I approach.

I walk down the ‘chute’

A dark hole leading to the stage.

Another director smiles

Nods

It’s finally my turn.

As I step into the lights

My worries vanish

And I read, almost sing my poem.

My poem about my dear friend

A friend of forty plus years

Who held my hand when I cried

Who chuckled so loudly she’d wake the dead.

This was my testimony to our friendship.

My memories of good days we’d shared.

She was there with me as she’d always been.

And so, because of her, my voice rang out.

Applause escorted me off the stage.

Applause that should have been hers

For she deserves every last clap

My friend.