Draped in feats of legerdemain, yards of ribbon
a concocter works the park
plying passersby with tales of knights errant
and other minor traffic violators, served up
with scrambled eggs, home fries, Canadian bacon.
Everything is sautéed to perfection:
his mastery of Middle English
his recently departed hairline
his days as a university student
his work in soup kitchens
where he learned the art of concoction
while busing tables to the airport.
But that was long ago.
Today, in the park, amid a throng of thongs,
he hands out loose-limbed lines to the sun-screened
who, after reading the fine print, morph
into centipedes and move on,
legs linked, whistling, in harmony, Hail To The Chief
leaving the concocter poised, mid-sentence,
dollar bills pirouetting into his upturned cap.
