Illusion

Why do I love

the magician’s sleight

of hand as he pulls

your card from his white

threadbare sleeve?

He aims to deceive,

to trick and steal

your smarts with his

sly yellowing smile,

pulling hares from hats

and scarves from mouths.

Why do I adore

his gaudy get-up, 

his made-up assistant?

Their exaggerated gestures

clutch my attention,

every reveal forces gasps

and vibrant applause. 

I don’t care that

his awkward paws reveal

flaws in his work:

wires and strings,

false bottoms, trick cards.

I love the sensation

of his shabby showmanship,

slipping tricks, tricking

eyes, stealing awe.