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ILLUSION
Come ladies and gents! the magicker cries
Leans in—all the better for hawking his wares—
And tempts the strewn masses with arrogant eyes Rush to the ticketeer,
buy if you dare!
They bend to his spirit, they crawl at his feet—
The gaudy regalia capture their souls
Like Saint Nick on a spree of impossible treats—
Now adapted for those
who have tired of coal
Bring me your young’uns, your fools, and your blind!
He calls, from his alter of circus delight I’ll stupefy skeptics, I’ll battle and bind!
And all that I ask
is an hour in your sight!
And so they come flocking—the sheep to the herd
Rams, ewes, with their foolishly delicate lambs—
Transfixed by the glory of ivory-winged birds
Produced from the magicker’s
fluttering hands
He enchants them, and acts with impeccable time—
All the drama, the visions, miraculous spells
From the bell of beginning, to hour’s dark chime— Say you nay? Has there anyone
doubts for to quell?
At sunset they file out into the cold
The echoes of Come again! hang in the air
While I—at the ropes where the curtain’s edge folds—
Steal away, with the knowledge
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