Post the Twenty Sixth

Illusion

I make the monkeys clap
until all that remains is the echo
of intention. Swollen cymbal fingers
broken at the knuckles.

Little marsupials try to touch
me. I am the music from their masters
box. They think they hear me even when
the cranking stops.

Over-sized castanets fall with
laughter as the monkey jumps, thinking
the throat of their patron is mine.
Another job lost
because the Illusion can’t be killed.

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