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Volume 2 | Issue 3 | March 2008 | 

Richard Jeffrey Newman

When Sam’s left hand fell to his side,
and his right held the dime in the mind of his audience,
I craned my neck at the far end of the front row
trying to glimpse the bulge in the fabric
covering his table, or catch the tremor
that would tremble the fabric’s edge,
signs of “the drop,” the pocket in the tablecloth
the coin should have fallen into. There was nothing.

Sam chuckled. Richie, he said, his eyes
never leaving the people who’d come
to be transported by his skill, a master magician
never forgets how to enjoy a good trick,

and from around the air that in the center of his palm
had been money,
       finger by finger,
              he unfolded his hand.









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