You what mate?

by grimbeau

garros

Stagefrit,

dumbstruck,

ashen,

The face stared down

on the bated mob.

Nothing would come out:

children exploded, men fought, women wept,

but nothing came out.

Aides de camps and unknown others, bent under

unseen chopper blades, scurried.

Still nothing came.

In the lower right hand corner of the screen,

a purple faced, ill-kempt, bulbous signer,

feminine, signed frantically. The mob paused.

What’s she saying? What’s she saying?

Nothing silly, it’s a pantomime!

Yes, but what’s she signing?

Watch my lips, watch my lips.

Ah, thank heavens!

The collective sighed knowing

The Face only lied when its lips were moving.