Magic Show

Time, the third-rate conjurer, has run
Through all his parlor tricks, and left
Me half fooled once again. The mountains
Have remained unchanged, the trees
Are as they long have been, half green,
Half beetle-eaten, dead. The creeks
Still tumble through their valleys.
Winter-ravaged Leadville looks
No better than it ever did in summer.
All the rusted hulks and mounds
Of trash which winter's snows
Politely hide have been exposed.
The crowd of relatives is large.
A few who couldn't come last year
Are here. A few who'd come sent
Word that they could not this time,
So nothing seems to change. Time
Smirks. “This is my best illusion.”
It's not bad, I must admit, but not
Entirely persuasive. Why are all my
Cousins old? Why are these kids
Not just not us, but also not
The ones we raised? They're
Grandkids. Why are we
Assembled here to say goodbye
To someone else? Time says,
“Presto,” doffs his hat and bows.
“See; all remains the same,”
And I work hard to save
His trick, but everything
Has changed.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 80 times
Written on 2017-07-25 at 17:04

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