Outing

It was sure to be some speech. The man
Had been waiting his whole life to give it.
He was unsure of the exact date he was born,
And the records bore this out: a man was brought
Into this world, yes, he is standing at the podium,
But exactly when and under what conditions
Remain unknown. A woman in the audience
Wondered, “What’s this speech about?”
“Tsk, tsk,” said her mother in her Sunday finery.
“No, I mean, what’s the content going to be?”
“Shush now,” her mother replied, centering her birdie hat.
It was best nobody talked, and instead wait
For the speech to happen. It was coming
Along now, any minute. You could feel
The water being poured, notes being looked over,
A hot microphone getting ready to be tapped
By a throat that was clearing in anticipation.
A voice too was readying itself, telling itself
I’m the voice through which the man
Makes his foray into the world of description.
It was then that the man stepped up, a twinkle
In his eye, put a finger to his lips,
And said, “I’m a mute!”