THE MAGICIAN

My father never forgot 
The name of the jazz band 

And the riff he once hummed,
When he would twirl then dip 

My mother, his glowing Assistant, 
Releasing her to spin, 

Until her arms slid down again
To encircle his waist. 

He appeared to pour milk from a glass pitcher 
Into a cone he had fashioned

Out of the day’s newspaper,
But as the crowd drew near

He crumpled the daily headlines into dry ball. 
The entire world beyond the room

Seemed to disappear when he was left 
Standing there, holding nothing. 

The parents clapped. The children beamed. 
And for his close, he grinned widely, 

Tipping his shiny, black top hat,
As my mother in her spangled swimsuit 

Saluted, and he pulled another colorful, frayed
Silk from his enormous sleeves.

Michael Sofranko, a professor, writer, editor, and poet, attended the Writers Workshop at University of Iowa, and the PhD program at the University of Houston. His collection of poetry, American Sign, received the Antonio Machado Prize, and his work has appeared in many literary journals. He lives in Houston, Texas.