But for whatever reason, poems -- or poems that look like poems (as opposed to blogs which may be poems that look like blogs) -- have mostly being lying quiet and heavy in my gut like a too much of a spaghetti dinner.
But this one showed up last night before I went to sleep and while I usually type them up and let them sit in a file for a year or so before releasing them to the air, I'll throw it out this morning. Presto, Chango!
Disappearing Act Revealed
Magicians never tell their secrets so
the first time, I saw you
a crowd in a closed room of conversation
I applauded with abandon and vowed
to watch more closely if an encore came.
The next time the curtain went up
I studied how bouquets of flowers sprang forth
from both your hands,
the eyes of your fans rolling up with surprise
and the scent of sweet perfume.
Silken scarves, a pastel cloud of flirtatious words,
veiling those who would come closer,
the sudden snap of your wrist that created a cane,
solid and prodding that drove the last resisters back.
And always the abracadabra patter
of politics and art, the well-timed joke,
the conversational smoke and mirrors
that hid the trap door through which the
actual you could slowly slip.
Until you noticed the last remaining set of eyes
and pulled your masterpiece smile from the hat,
and threw it at me like flash powder.
I blinked in your light and then you were gone again
leaving me fooled again, but without applause --
instead of your smile, I’d rather have your lips.