He knows where the magician hides his

Cards, dew wet my boot trail to his door

And noon hardly wrenches him from me.

The bus is growing wings

Then we lose our teeth to the ferries.

 

It is rude to borrow a shaven stick

Or nothing at all.

He faces the setting sun on the old town 

Road. If the train ever gets there, send a post.

Class becomes an empty magician pocket.

 

“Everyone knows how to roll a joint.

Don’t let the cup be empty, fill it up.

City light can reveal the truth even

In the night clubs: Shine your shoes.”

 

Mrs. Steve opens the door at the fourth ring

Weighing his stance, smelling air around him.

How they do it, city marriage?

Complex as the city map.

 

He comes back and reminds me of

The number of chairs in the theatre.

He doesn’t glow about it

He lost a lot after that train.