There's some confusion involving the stagehands and Czcibor and some 'really? what? Me? Now?' gestures and expressions, and then the Polish administrative assistant in the nice suit tugs at his collar and displaces his tie slightly, grimacing. He makes his way up to the microphone and takes his little black notepad back out of his pocket, flipping pages, then flipping pages again, and clearing his throat uncomfortably. Finally, he looks up at the crowd and squints in the spotlight, forgets what he was going to say, and has to look down again. Then he realizes he didn't write an introduction, and clears his throat again, and just starts:
"On dying highways in the countries south
Macadam, ancient, crossed by crackled lines
And berries ripe for putting in the mouth
In grasses drying twisted 'round old signs
"The travellers tread light with silver shoes
And only tell their stories in the shade
That frighten, calm, bewilder or amuse
And earn the keep of children of the rade.
"Now time that passes strangely in a reel
With steps that baffle those with creaking minds
Is home to riders on new mounts of steel
And stories that they tell are hard to find
"The hours weigh upon the golden roads
But nighttime will remember lighter loads."
He pauses, then looks up at the crowd again-- he didn't actually, you know, adjust the mic. At all. So really the whole production is kind of awkward. "Um, thank you." Then he steps back, looks uncertain, and moves off the stage.
Tags: poetry, rp
Right now? I'm: 
amused
Listening to: Gina Donahue - Sauber Verbrannt (short edit)
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