These Days It's Hard to Tell What's Part of the Act
My doctor's packed the place for years
because he's known for making huge things
sometimes disappear. His routine is predictable,
effortless. Pick a number, any number: he's pointing
to his framed pain scale. He pauses for effect.
The six second sequenced faces are a kid—time-lapsed—
at a magic show gone wrong. Onstage in Vegas
once, the rare white tiger snapped. Inexplicable:
my numbers creeping up each week. My doctor
backs out quickly, as if dragged off in some beast's jaws.
Structure
10 lines · 10 stanzas