A Typical Magician

You read the scripted map-
cryptically attractive words
repeated from the page I reveal each day.
With the movements, the syllables,
you solidify your station
from miles away.

What an inscrutable measure of distance-
close enough to touch knuckles, twist limbs,
yet disconnected deep within
the skin I sweat against.
You've never been living in more remote place while
leaving breath fresh on my face.
It's the best damn magic trick there's ever been.

I remember the game you perfected-
guessing the card I chose after a swift shuffle
and cut
of the deck.
It was impressive, I admit, but
the fact I allowed you
to confess yourself to me in such
obvious metaphor without
enforcing the door ashames me still.
I knew the logic behind it
but didn't have gall enough
to call you out.
No wonder you were so good;
your crowd poses herself
easily pleased.

Fingers flicking like grease
through options,
your eyes remain fixed on the floor.
You read my action,
hid reaction,
answered every turn in deceptive truth.
The correct card.
The exact suit.
The game that does nothing but
awe the guesser into being satisfied
with loss.