LEGERDEMAIN
Here's the man with magic, with a
moniker coming from somewhere.
They call him Fred the Magician,
when he's out on the road. He does
his gigs, town to town, in banks,
and walks away loaded.
-
I sit here crimped; writing little
messages on mountains of dead
paper. Leaving for northwest. All
the maps tell me that. I read them
like magic too.
-
It's an acquired taste, to be sure,
being me. Candles go out as I
approach them, and every traffic
light turns to red as I near. From
30 feet, I stop
-
On the phone, some girl named
Kate is setting up my cable. Sweet
deal? Wifi in the mountains. The
Wasatch Range, or Wasabi. I
forget? Small silhouettes in the
foothills of the Alleghenies.
-
Frank, Joe, Bob, Helen, where am
I, and how'd it ever get to be this way?
I am fit to be tied. I've tried to be fit
but got tired of it. Now I'm a sudden
old man. Turned by some magic into
what I thought I'd never be?
-
Not me. I know those old people. they
stand around in dog parks, taking enemas
and pills, battling with doctors for all
their little ills. Good gracious golly
Molly, is this the bus stop still?
-
If it's not, I'm leaving, on a jet plane.
Don't know when I'll be back again.
Oh babe, I hate to go.
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