Instant living.
Unrehearsed performance.
Untried-on body.
A thoughtless head.

I am ignorant of the role I perform.
All I know is it’s mine, can’t be exchanged.

What the play is about 
I must guess promptly on stage.

Poorly prepared for the honour of living
I find the imposed speed of action hard to bear.
I improvise though I loathe improvising.
At each step I trip over my ignorance.
My way of life smacks of the provincial.
My instincts are amateurish.
The stage-fright that is my excuse only humiliates me more.
Mitigating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and gestures that cannot be retracted,
stars that counted to the end,
my character like a coat I button up running—
this is the sorry outcome of such haste.

If only one could practice ahead at least one Wednesday, 
repeat a Thursday!
But now Friday’s already approaching with a script I don’t
                                                                                   know.

Is this right?—I ask
(in a rasping voice,
Since they didn’t even let me clear my throat in the wings).

You’re deluded if you think it’s only a simple exam
set in a makeshift office. No.
I stand among the stage-sets and see they’re solid.
The revolving stage’s been turning for quite some time.
Even the nebulae are switched on.
Oh, I have no doubt this is the opening night.
And whatever I’ll do
will turn for ever into what I have done.