After the magic man had packed up and gone
we left too and
never saw who they pulled out of the hat to take his place,
in any case, the pretender to his throne had been known to stack the deck in his favor.
Across town where the Sun never shone,
where the daffodils died for want of its song,
we drunk ourselves senseless
aware yet unwilling
to get the last beer in lest morning should come.
Things get in the way of things we should do,
like the excuses we use.
you wouldn’t walk a mile in my shoes
wouldn’t want to walk the same mile in yours.
and each gives chances to enter or leave,
unless the door’s ajar full of gin in a bar on the other side of town.
The man with his magic tricks sticks up two fingers,
a Churchill impression.
Someone shovels up the sawdust
someone just sits there and weeps
someone calls out for another cold beer
and someone sleeps,
pictures from yesterday’s camera,
an album in the suitcase of dreams.
© 2017, John Smallshaw.