The coward hid in the crowdand pointed a shriveled finger
at the man on the stage.
“Booo,” and “Hiss,” bleatedthe coward and ducked
their head down out of sight.
“Who said that? Why wouldyou say that,” asked the man
on the stage, doing his best.
No response from the crowd.
No answer from the coward.
Blank faces and sealed lips.
The man went back to his act,the thing he loved doing. He knew
it wasn’t for everyone, it was a risk.
“You’re awful,” said the samecowardly voice from the crowd
before vanishing into the mob.
“Hey, c’mon, I’m doing my best,I’m up here doing, trying it out,
taking a chance with my name and face.”
The crowd shuffled, unmoved, un-phased,they were used to anonymous cowards in
the herd, too scared to say their own name.
“We can talk about it, we can discuss the act,if you have something constructive I’ll listen,
but why just tear it down? Why? Why hide?”
Again there was nothing, the coward was gone,moved on to something else they don’t understand,
something else to criticize without using a name.
“I guess I’ll continue, despite your cowardice.I know I’m brave enough to try at least.
My name is Michael. This is my minute.”