More thoughts on magic tricks.

Stooge contemplates their existence

Lying is a physical inescapability as me, but I tell no-one
that. Every night I dress as if it's my last—or my birthday—
and I do remember times when that could have been true.

I move in sections of the stalls for the necessity of discovery.
It amazes me how he can place me every time, but it's only small
things like that now that do. He does have one trick I don't know

so I have something to watch for every night. Every night everyone
assumes my dream come true, and in a way they're right.
I can't get enough of his beautiful face, his sleighting fingers.

I got into this game when sawing was all the rage, and have lost
my legs often enough. They always come back in the end.
Always. He can still surprise me with it sometimes.

The greasepaint, the dressing rooms, my name in lights:
all reasons I started and everything I am forced to ignore.
My face is an ever-changing carousel of normal smiles and blushes.

See if you can spot me, one day. My name is discrete.
I do not fiddle with padlocks and leotards. I am stooge and silent.
I often do not recognise myself.