FicWad

The crowd sits silent,
watchful, waiting for the
statue to move like it is
a long-awaited concert
where the curtains are still closed,
and they have front row seats.

The crowd begins to murmur,
straining to hear signs of the band
warming up:
an off-key guitar being tuned,
a microphone shrieking static,
a dropped cymbal clashing against
the floor. They wonder
what is taking so long.

The crowd smiles and smirks,
chuckling to one another –
it’s a loud noise in the quiet.
It is surely a joke, a prank,
designed to make them angry at first,
only for them to laugh about it
later. It will be a fond memory,
of course, retold around dinner tables and
Christmas trees with good humor. They
wait anxiously for the curtains to open.

The crowd fidgets
uncomfortably. It has been
too long. The stage lights
are dark; the speakers are
without an electrical hum.
They are scared by the
pounding of their hearts.

The crowd holds their breath
as a man steps out from backstage,
microphone in hand. He stands there
for a very long time and doesn’t say anything.
They lose hope.

The crowd stands
and walks out in single file
before the man speaks.
Some of them are in tears,
and the ones that aren’t are
holding them back,
whether they realize it or not.
The curtain stays closed
and the statue stays still.