by Ray Nessly
Street mime in white face and white gloves, trapped in invisible box. Tip jar empty. Marcel's solo-dancing the tango now, teeth clenching ephemeral rose. Passersby pass him by.
He shackles his arms and legs. Imaginary handcuffs, intangible chains. The padlock's but a ghost. The blindfold? Real.
Master of silence, in bundle on sidewalk, struggling like Houdini.
Tap-tap down the sidewalk goes a cane, tap-tap against the tip jar, tap-tap against Marcel's noggin.
“Sorry 'bout that!” the blind man says, reaching into his pocket. He fingers his coins, finds just the right one, and plunks it into Marcel's jar.
All rights reserved.
Published-- Boston Literary Magazine Winter 2014-2015
Reprinted by Apocrypha and Abstractions July 11 2016