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Salvatore Amico M. Buttaci |
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IN HOBART'S CAFE He takes the hot cup and pretends his hand is still, wills his heart to beat in whispers, the way it could when he was young and new to love. Behind open eyes those shadows of his former self dance in the gray candle smoke of lost last nights. He wishes he could dwell there forever. Before him on the table, as if alive, the letter flutters in the summer rays of the cafe fan: Words explode like landmines in his eyes. Again he reads every word-a penitent's prayer to exorcise demons- or some deciphered intrigue to walk him somehow back in time. He imagines this late August he is lying in a field ablaze with corn marigolds black-magically transformed into a bed of nails. His eyes burn in the caustic scribble of her farewell: "When you read this I will be gone. The endless summer you promised me will soon be autumn." QUICKER THAN THE EYE These tricks of the white-gloved hand float up from the dark of a top hat like ghost dancers behind an opaque curtain of rain. They are clever tricks. We can be fooled. Were you there when he raised a cobra head of colored scarves? And the two coins that vanished in the silvery thin air? Were you there when the magician sawed in half a woman whose life was divided between heaven and hell? He put her back together again! All those illusions saved in his little black book! The magic man flaunts his wand in soft slow arcs. Some things disappear; others reappear or he teases us about how nothing in life is perfect and even magic fails us. Do not believe him. Soon he will wave the wand, once more Make light of the unpredictability of our lives. He will draw from his tall hat white rabbits, fluttering doves, a pitcher of water. He will distract us with sleight of hand until these sideshows we all live will have happy endings. |