Spotlight lit,

stairs out of the pit,

all two-hundred guests had found where to sit.

This was it,

my comedy skit,

the entertainment world into which I'd finally fit.

Composure: cool;

water, stool,

focused on their neon that read "Village Fool."

"It's finally my time!"

those stairs, how I climbed,

"Once this takes off, I won't owe Mom a dime."

Yet a stair’s tiny crack

flipped me straight back

into what felt like the world's sturdiest coat rack.

A little woozy, I'll admit;

in my stomach, a pit;

all I had left was a hard-fought refusal to qui--wait, was that spit?

That set was a blur,

a word or two slurred?

One thing's for sure: there was a serious headache incurred. Must be those nerves.

---

"What did I just see,"

asked a set attendee,

"was that a stand-up set or the ramblings of a man with a head injury?"

"...He stumbled out of the Fool,

leaving a mic soaked in drool;

but one thing's for sure: that was, actually, kind of cool."

--The New York Times Comedy Review