It Must Be Magic

Isn’t it spooky
how many couples disappear
when the magic’s gone?
You would think they’d stay
there on the table, or bed,
when the smoke goes poof.
But that’s what happens on stage
before the curtain falls.
Either the guy in the cape
is left standing there
less the girl he came on with,
or that girl notices
the run in her fishnets like
the one he just took.
But magic’s a funny thing.
It can reveal, too,
as well as it can conceal.
Like when the ta-daaa
comes along and the partner
thought gone reappears
in the back of the playhouse
to thunderous applause.
Sure, it’s an old illusion,
a trick we’ve all seen.
But while we stand and applaud
at the duo’s gift
and the wonder they provide,
no one goes home so
immersed in magic than they.
Because they know how
hard it is to keep and act
all together since
anyone can disappear
when the lights go down.

I thought I could write a story today, but I still seemed paralyzed by my being too long in the wasteland of depressed creativity. So I went back to my roots. Literally. The first full-length poem I ever wrote — it must be nine years ago — was a linking of the 5-7-5 syllable scheme of haiku. Go ahead and count ’em. I’ll wait. I’ll always be here, not gonna disappear, come stories or not.

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