Carin Perron: Poems & Prose

The Magician
After Hours

Great Scott! he leaps,
all purple feet and velvet pants,
as echoing elastic rainbows bound
from his shoulders to his waist
(and such a waste,
his most elaborately vertical self,
billboarded over
by a conspiracy of buttons)

Well, Hello! he shouts, from the magnificent
convexities and concavities of his face,
as his penny-dreadful grin slips,
breathtakingly playful as a guillotine
lurching inexorably down --

and he never stops reverberating

Pity, he's such a magician --

even after hours, nobody sees his hands

© 1981, Carin Perron

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