With Age

With age my knee
now does tricks,
something my hands
could never learn.

Fumble, as I would,
with rolling a coin
between wooden fingers
or palming the ace,

prestidigitation never
visited. Today, though,
my right knee conjures
an act of misdirection

so perfect my body almost
doesn’t follow it.
Even the skeptics in the front row
would be wowed.

–S.E.A

Miz Adrienne and Miz Bee

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This entry was posted in Poetry.

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