Suburban Lovechild Poet Free verse

Magicless

It's early November '91, 
and I quite can't remember, 
ever, 
feeling this humbled, seeing
Magic stumble, 
off his shiny crown, 
and the little boy
Who once glared at 32, 
fixated by a dribbling
Rhythm,        so compulsive, 

    so majestic, 

so unattainable, 
by his own standards, 
that he had no choice, 
but to glare, 

It's different now, 
A leather cacophony, 
dribbling dissonance, 
laymen lay-ups, 
Leading us to believe
it was a mere illusion, 
but I believed in Magic.

(1/22/92)

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