If I Were a Poet

I must have been eighteen
when I had this dream;
Such a dream could not
have been dreamed at seven or at nineteen:
I was standing on a stage
in front of thousands of people.
And they all looked like they were screaming,
but no sound came from their gaping mouths.
I was sure that they were begging me to sing or play
or at least whistle a note.
The ones in the front that I could make out
through the haze of lights
were on their knees,
praying that I would speak, clap my hands,
cough, anything to rescue them from their silent hell.