The Magics

Bob Wilke
excelled at the close up
kind of magic –
that pick a card sort of thing –
great at parties,
when the chatter
is lacking
and the astonished
were a bit off-plumb
and didn’t notice he ain’t
practiced much.

Now Roy Dennison,
on the other hand,
would pull a maggot
from your nose
if he knew you were lying –
a fait accompli kind of thing.
He always said doves were too big,
too flighty, rabbits nibble his pockets,
and Roy, just too damned
lazy to feed ’em proper.

Emma McFadden,
oh – now
she
had
the apparatus –
that steampunk clinking thing
with exposed gears,
whirling barber poles,
horns that puked blue smoke
and methane, chain,
sawblades and springs,
flywheels and pulleys –
all the things necessary
to rip a body apart
and leave the choking crowd
gasping for more,
always wondering.

Some say they spotted her,
one or two times with a shovel
under that old scraggly sycamore
behind Dennison’s place.
That may be the case or
just a bunch of flap, I don’t know.
I ain’t going back there, though
I do have some ideas
on the supply side
of Roy’s maggots.

What a show.
Man oh man, those were the days.
What a show.

Image: Isis França on Unsplash

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