The Act

The magician with his wand,
on the stage with a silk
black hat and rabbit,
a scantily clad woman who
waves and woos the crowd
into awe and wonder, is tired
of his job. Making things
appear, then disappear,
or sawing Zelda into two
has lost it's zing, it's
pizzaz. There is no joy
or juice left in the applause.
He wants to rest his weary
arms, stuffed with tricks
up his sleeves. He wants
to go where he doesn't have
to flip through cards to find
just yours, or pull a coin
from a child's ear, or bend
a strip of metal with his
wild eyed stare. Enough.
He's done with doing magic.
He'd rather work the line,
putting bumpers onto trucks,
hammering nails, or filling
up the next donut with banana
cream, but his wife, Zelda,
who adorns the stage and has
felt the edge of the rubber
knife, the silly saw, wants
more. She wants it all and
pushes her man to greater
heights, to bigger feats of
amazement. She knows that
she can't look this way
forever and needs to fill
the bank with money, and then
to find the man she really
loves before all the time
runs out, like air in the
water filled glass box where
the magician hangs suspended.