Now For My Next Trick
My long-patched magician's suit
has been mothballed,
the trick pockets,
hidden springs and secret linings
no longer fool or bedazzle.
A white rabbit died in my top hat
the hat, I returned to Amazon
marked 'unused',
the stale rabbit droppings within it
failed to convince.
Age has revealed a wizened wizard,
a creature unmasked.
Should I now take up a similar profession,
one just as duplicitous and talismanic,
yet much less obvious,
forswear with a feigned confidence
that this new self be none other,
than a bona fide poet?
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