Magic

 

The final line of this

poem no longer

exists. It was surely there

for the taking , its fingernails

clutching rock, at the

top of a ragged cliff

from which it hung ,

a Wile E. Coyote

in the making.

 

This poem’s closing line

is a bar of soap 

in a steamy shower,

pushed away from my

hand by its slime,

ready to trip me up 

the moment it falls,

my eyes shut tightly

from the suds of cheap

shampoo, its lie of

no more tears.

 

The final line of this

poem is a cheeky kid 

playing hide-and-seek,

concealed behind the

curtains, waiting for me

to open—                  

 

then disappear

like David Blaine.

 

Dear darling of a

brat, I promise not to

harm, will only borrow

what I need to make this

grand, let you vanish

in the air

 

once I’ve wrenched you

from my hat

by your fluffy ears.

 

 

 

©Andreas Gripp