Con Artists On The Beach

     by Mark Taksa

Tricky as a magician draining beer
into a false bottomed mug, I empty coins
from hands of gamblers into my pocket
open to a hole under a palm tree.

I carry a satchel of dollars.
My mind wanders like a bony bird
among briny carburetors on the beach.

You winked to show me the other
players' hands. Now you swim from the daffodils
of your dress, on waves my eye transforms
into a bed of cash that cannot melt.

Fuck honesty! You play a banjo,
singing that only the artist of the trick
strokes the vulture perched on a Buddha.